THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Our  Dancing 
Days 

By 

Joseph  Russell  Taylor 


The  Stratford  Company 

Boston  Massachusetts 

1922 


Copyright,   1922 

The  STRATFORD  CO.,  Publishers 
Boston,  Mass. 


The  Alpine  Press,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


ps 

353? 


Contents 

Page 

The  Mocking  Bird  .....  1 
The  Waking  of  Brynhild  .  .  .  .19 
The  Nymph  and  Hylas  .  .  .  .43 
Lady  Greensleeves  .....  67 
The  Lady's-Tresses  .....  89 
Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase  .  113 


The  Mocking-Bird 


The  Mocking- Bird 


THESE  are  the  favors  of  our  dancing  days, 
I  cannot  keep  them  separate,  and  these 
The  tragic  figures  stealing  back  to  take 
Their  places  in  the  pretty  twelve  that  made 
Our  last  cotillion  famous :  here  they  are. 
The  Figure  of  the  Tally-Ho  was  first. 

For  that  began  it :  Georgia  perched  with  me 
High  on  the  last  seat  of  the  crowded  deck 
And  highest,  over  a  ship  of  children,  yes, 
The  crew  from  the  old  towns  and  all  the  years 
The  last  time  gathered  for  a  perfect  play, 
Bound  for  the  Country  Club  to  dance  night  out. 
We  made  it  brave  adventure,  worth  the  while ; 
A  galleon  cruise,  a  caravel  crowding  back 
Into  the  purple ;  while  our  storied  huge 
Journeying  chariot  rumbled  under  us 
To  trotting  castanets,  the  sixteen  hooves, 
Out  to  the  country  and  the  stars;  till  now 
The  city  made  a  moonset  in  the  west 
Like  what  the  true  moon  yet  unrisen  made 


2  Our  Dancing  Days 

Eastward  ahead ;  and  now  and  now  the  elms 
That  hung  and  hovered  such  mere  shadows  burst 
To  a  clash  of  boughs  upon  us,  a  cascade 
Of  leaves  that  struck  and  swept  us,  caught  and 

closed 

Upon  the  shrieks  and  laughter,  and  all  the  heads 
Bowed  in  a  comic  tangle  knee  to  knee, 
And  the  song  scattered.    That  was  Old  Madrid. 
"Where's  Georgia?"     "Oh,  hung  up!"    "The 

third  tree  back!" 

How  then  the  glimmering  faces  turned  on  us, 
The  others  there  among  them  of  our  Four, 
A  wind  of  escalade:  "The  witch  rides  high!" 
"The  witch  and  John  the  broomstick!"     The 

witch  laughed. 
And  she  believed  'twas  real,  the  war  with  Spain. 


II 


And  here  I  make  confession  that  indeed 
I  was  the  witch  her  broomstick :  for  I  thought, 
God  bless  me,  that  I  might  be  wrong  to  think 
The  Four  of  Us  were  right :  John  Hampton,  I, 
With  Georgia  Lee,  and  with  Virginia  Lee 
Beverly  Stead,  but  never  two  by  two, 
Always  the  Four  of  Us :  I  might  be  wrong. 


The  Mocking-Bird  3 

And  now  he  was  off  to  Cuba  in  the  morning, 
Beverly,  I  was  sure  they  all  were  waiting 
My  slow  heart  that  yet  might  wreck  us  all. 
There's  finer  speech  than  talking:  then  with  me 
How  did  Virginia  dance,  and  Georgia  how? 

Virginia,  she  was  wild  to  go  to  war, 

Wait,  with  a  gypsy  rose  between  her  lips. 

We  two-stepped  off  to  Spain,  we  danced  with 

such 

Rhyme  and  assent  of  sure  equality, 
She  went  with  me  so  lightly  closely  one, 
That  through  the  lamps  I  wheeled  her  so  she 

touched 

White  skirts  afloat  none  of  the  cold  fixed  fires. 
They  would  have  flamed  and  fallen,  they  were 

still. 

Why,  that  was  sign  enough.  But  then,  who  knows 
A  woman 's  heart  ?    The  Figure  might  have  told, 
The  Shackle.    Oh  the  Shackle :  look,  a  tube, 
A  barrel  of  belted  ribbons,  quaint  and  rich ; 
And  twelve  at  once  the  girls  thrust  through  it 

each 
A  right   arm  shoulder-deep;  and  thronged  to 

them 

Each  of  us  caught  and  kept  a  hand ;  and  last 
The  thing  unlocked,  and  we  untangled,  yes. 


4  Our  Dancing  Days 

And  pretty  was  the  cluster  of  laughing  girls, 
Pretty  the  bare  arms  faggoted,  the  hands 
Imploring,  desperate  all, — whose  hand,  whose 

arm? 

And  I  drew  in  my  partner  through  the  press, 
Virginia  still,  her  wild  hand  captured  mine. 

That  music  was  right  Spanish,  Toreador. 
And  now  we  snatched  confetti,  and  throwing 

danced 
Through  falling  rainbows,   frost  on  her  dark 

hair, 

And  her  clear  shoulders,  and  she  sang.  Why,  so, 
Stuff  of  old  sonnets,  or  my  treacherous  self, 
It  was  too  easy  reading, — not  Virginia ! 

m 

A  war  no  more  than  sonnet-stuff,  I  cursed 
To  Georgia  that  my  honor  kept  me  home 
And  Beverly's  took  afield;  to  all  of  which 
Georgia,  flying  before  me  her  serene 
And  supercilious  profile,  quite  agreed. 
She  was  so  self-effacing,  so  polite, 
It  did  depress  me  more.    The  dance  struck  up : 
She  glanced,  she  made,  as  none  but  she  could  do, 
Her  lashes  insolent:  "What  of  me?"  she  said, 
"Virginia's  dancing  with  a  sword  at  hip, 


The  Mocking-Bird  5 

And  I  must  ride  a  broomstick."     "Sure,"  I 

swore, 
"You're  riding!"  and  so  caught  her  out  away. 

The  witch  in  violet,  like  the  moon  half-up, 
There  was  a  wind  at  moonrise,  yes ;  she  leaned 
Back  in  the  hollow  of  my  arm  full  weight, 
And  with  her  breast  a  push-away  like  hands 
She  flashed  such  fire  against  surrender,  against 
Rapture,  that  we  went  reeling,  we  went  falling, 
And  only  as  by  her  arms-out  went  upright. 
"My  dear  Hidalgo,"  twirling  on  full  stretch 
She  said,  "I  meant  a  windmill."     What  she 

meant, 

Resist  it  yet,  what  was  it  but  the  fresh 
Temptation  of  how  right  'twould  be  to  kiss 
The  inside  arm  that  was  uplifted  for  it  ? 
"You're  really  nice  tonight,"  she  said:  and  then 
Laughed  sweetly :  ' '  Oh,  you  can 't  of  course :  but 

where?" 

And  I,  before  I  knew  it,  I  slid  my  hand 
Back  to  the  loop  that  caught  her  up  the  white 
Flank-foam  to  let  her  step  go  brilliant:  there 
For  the  increase  of  brilliance.    We  were  first 
Under  the  lane  of  gold  and  white,  and  none 
That  followed  so  with  fury  was  picked  up 
And  carried  through  the  dipping  canopies. 


6  Our  Dancing  Days 

That  was  the  Figure  of  the  Scarf,  and  this. 
The  lights  were  low,  and  we  all  went  winged 

like  moths, 

And  over  each  girl's  head  the  sparks  went  red 
That  made  the  air  one  luxury,  of  the  joss-sticks 
Thrust  in  their  hair.  But  Georgia  snapped  her 

horns 

Upon  me  trying  to  burn  me  with  the  fire. 
Or  take  my  throat  with  yet  more  haunting  scent, 
Dark  anodyne.    Who  knows  a  woman's  heart? 
'Twas  all  too  plain !     'Twas  my  own  selfishness ! 

IV 

Who  knows  a  woman's  heart?    Why,  every  man 
Who  knows  a  little  of  his  own  strange  heart. 
It  is  no  different  faith  binds  men  together. 
As  that  great  day,  no  farther  from  our  dance 
Than  three,  packed  with  excitements  and  fare 
wells, 

When  Beverly's  Eegiment  was^off  to  war, 
And  we  in  my  high  windows  waited  them ; 
Virginia  with  her  sheaf  of  noble  roses, 
American  beauties,  binding  round  the  long 
Thorned  stems  of  those  deep  crimsons  her  long 
gloves ; 


The  Mocking-Bird  7 

That  was  a  favor  indeed.    And  that  great  day, 
It's  only  one  more  figure  of  the  twelve, 
The  Figure  of  the  Eegiment,  the  Hose. 

Ah  yes,  the  Eegiment.    Their  way  was  strait 
Between  the  glittering  crowds ;  from  wall  to  wall 
The  wind  and  fury  of  cheering  came  with  them ; 
The  band  crashed  into  ''Georgia", — southward 

ho!— 

And  the  instant  ghosts  thronged  with  us  to  salute 
The  colors  that  came  sheathed ;  and  in  the  russet 
Grim,  and  in  the  ripple  of  the  rifles, 
Grim  and  unsmiling  through  the  passion,  came 
The  Eegiment.    The  great  gray  Colonel  rode 
With  roses  on  his  sword-arm :  were  we  then 
Fools  that  we  did  not  know  with  what  a  red 
Upon  his  breast,  the  charge  passed  over  him, 
He  was  to  lie  in  the  sun  ?    Not  fools,  not  we : 
For  through  the  storm,  the  beating  bells  and 

guns, 
The  blast  of  shrilling  throats  that  seemed  to 

strike 

High  heaven  with  the  utmost  heart's  desire 
Innumerably  one,  we  sent  them  forth 
To  no  ignoble  errand,  no  mean  death, 
The  Seventeenth,  off  to  the  Spanish  war. 


8  Our  Dancing  Days 

But  with  the  Colonel  rode  his  aides,  and  one 

Like  dancing,  so  the  bright  bay  hung  and  hung 

Timed  to  the  horns  upon  the  gay  half-wing. 

That  was  Juanita.    And  as  fairy-fine, 

Hung  in  my  arm  as  Georgia  in  the  other, 

Virginia  tossed  her  roses,  and  they  fell 

Slowly,  slowly,  instantaneously, 

A  flame  that  was,  a  drip  of  splendid  blood. 

They  had  made  her  room,  Juanita,  and  her  rider 

Wheeled  to  his  chief  again,  red  roses  too 

Upon  his  sword-arm.     That  was  Beverly  Stead. 

V 

There  were  yet  others  of  our  saraband 
Escaped  to  wider  floors.    The  Four  of  Us, 
We  missed  the  Parasol,  missed  the  Skipping- 

Eope. 

Lovelier  lusters  of  the  dance  were  ours, 
The  Figure  of  the  Lilac  in  the  Dark, 
And  of  the  Apple-Blossom  in  the  Moon. 

The  Four  a  fatal  new  way,  two  by  two ; 
We  had  let  the  others  go,  the  white-moth  girl, 
And  ghostlier  than  his  moolit  smoke  the  boy 
In  khaki,  and  the  glancing  firefly,  there, 
That  was  his  sword  between  them ;  let  them  go, 
And    Georgia    would    not    answer    when    they 
called. 


The  Mocking-Bird  9 

The  witch  now  of  the  silver  mask  and  bust, 
The  silver  arms  and  insteps,  and  all  else 
Shadow,  and  all  but  lost  against  the  cool 
Moonlighted  lilacs  that  had  lost  their  flowers, 
Her  dark  head  to  that  dusk  of  leaves  was  like 
An  incantation.    But  the  flowers  were  there, 
And  leaned  arms  out  to  her,  and  mouth  to  mouth. 
The  witch  of  the  unkissed  kisses,  was  it  she 
Herself  that  was  the  lilac,  all  night  long 
Unwearying  to  send  out  so  clear  a  soul 
Though  none  regarded?    Did  it  come  in  vain, 
For  all  must  love  in  lilac-fragrance,  all 
Must  love  in  lilac  fragrance,  did  it  come 
In  vain  to  me  of  all  men  ?    Georgia  said 
Quietly,  with  her  face  against  the  leaves, 
"They'll  weary  of  their  fragrance  by  and  by." 

And  I  said  nothing,  drawing  her  hands  away 

From  those  dark  others,  and  herself  as  if 

Into  the  very  veil,  the  chanting  choir ; 

The  orchard  of  the  mystic  tapestries 

That,  figured  gray  and  silver  and  ghost  of  green, 

And  woven  with  moonstone  blue,  and  lamped 

with  stars, 

Fell  hush  in  hush  upon  us ;  how  more  gay 
A   fragrance,    how   more    dimpling,    perishing. 

Then, 


10  Our  Dancing  Days 

While  so  we  took  the  bloom-light  on  our  hands 
And  in  our  eyes,  and  every  flower  of  them 
More  lovely  than  by  day,  the  blushing  lost, 
There  was  a  brilliant  bird-song.    Georgia  gasped, 
Georgia  caught  my  hands  and  danced,  and  danc 
ing 

Hung  like  an  elf  would  never  move  again. 
"My  dear,  my  dear!"  she  breathed,  "a  mocking 
bird!" 

VI 

There's  here  a  later  figure  always  slips 
Between,  the  Figure  of  the  Roman  Candle, 
And  here  keeps  place.    The  Fourth  of  that  July, 
I  reached  the  Sisters  at  the  end  of  it, 
As  on  the  very  wind  from  Santiago 
Blowing,  and  the  band  playing  El  Capitan, 
And  the  old  town  at  revel,  a  battle-light 
On  minuets;  the  calcium  splendor  now, 
The  gables  and  the  pillars  and  the  bays 
Crimson,  conscious,  looking;  group  on  group 
The  merrymakers  struck  to  Cardinals 
And  Carmens;  and  the  lanterns  fallen  green, 
Remote,  relieved,  as  if  they  had  taken  breath. 

The  fleet,  the  fleet  had  swept  the  seas  of  Spain. 
We  watched  like  children,  yes,  with  the  great 
deed 


The  Mocking-Bird  1 1 

Behind  it  all,  our  rockets  turn  and  break 
To  a  rain  of  limpid  violets,  or  let  slip 
A  handful  of  such  amorous  emeralds 
It  seemed  we  heard  them  ringing  bell  on  bell. 
' '  Gloriana !  the  Don  may  attack  us ! "  thus  to  her 
Declaring  I  set  the  candle  in  her  hand : 
"And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain?"  Vir 
ginia  cried, 

And  standing  in  a  glory  like  a  gay 
Martyr,  bowered  and  showered  with  falling  fires, 
She  lifted  a  bride's  face,  a  lily,  a  rose, 
Lifted  to  those  full  jets  of  flame  that  dropped 
Sunset  through  elms  or  snow  along  the  roofs, 
Kissed  burning  and  kissed  frozen,  a  bride's  face. 

I  thought  'twas  still  the  play :  a  wider  whirl, 
She  had  thrown  the  torch  itself,  she  was  off  along 
The  terrace,  running  to  the  steps,  where  now, 
Or  it  was  all  a  dream  that  could  not  wake, 
There  was  the  cycler  with  the  telegram. 
She  called  us  with  a  strange  heart-stopping  voice. 
And  like  a  nightmare  all  the  laughters,  all 
The  lusters,  changed  upon  her,  and  she  fell. 

VII 

The  Figure  of  the  Mocking-Bird.    'Twas  here 
In  our  Ohio.    For  now  more  and  more 


12  Our  Dancing  Days 

The  mocking-bird  comes  nesting  in  the  North, 
South  of  the  South,  true  silver  of  the  land 
Of  Georgia's  fathers.    Singing  in  our  night 
We  heard  him.    Oh,  we  have  the  mocker's  kin, 
The  brown-thrush,  he 's  our  passion 's  crown,  but 

this 

Beyond  the  rich  twice-over  of  the  thrush 
Was  aria,  opera.     Oh,  he  sang  half-voice, 
But  such  wild-warbling  fires  never  before 
Through  the  white  vow  and  witchcraft  of  the  veil 
Impeached  our  northern  moon.     The  mocking 
bird? 

Well,  I  was  conscious,  surely,  instantly, 
That  I  had  known  the  bird  I  did  not  know. 
Surely  I  knew  the  mocking-bird,  myself, 
However  out  of  memory.    It  was  mine, 
And  phrase  by  phrase  far-fallen  my  own  life 

lived, 

Good  art,  the  rest  well  lost,  the  best  alone, 
Great  heart,  impatient  most  of  its  own  joy, 
Vivid,  voluble,  outrunning  time, 
'Twas  my  own  heart  that  in  the  silver  danced, 
The  quick  wild  daring  of  a  heart  released 
That  forthwith  all  at  once  to  its  desire, 
The  long-deferred,  the  half-believed-in,  ran. 


The   Mocking-Bird  13 

The  loveliness  we  loved,  that  loved  not  us ! 
'Twas  gone,  and  we  could  breathe  again.    We 

heard 

As  from  the  underworld  an  echo  of  it, 
Virginia's  whistle  somewhere.     Georgia  stood 
Sighing  away  from  me,  and  Georgia  said : 
"I  know  what's  in  your  heart,  hear  what's  in 

mine: 
That  we  shall  never  see  him,  have  him,  more." 

"Nothing's  in  mine"  I  said,  "but  that  I've 
kissed  you." 

"My  blossomed  broomstick!"  cried  the  wide- 
eyed  witch : 

She  laid  white  wicked  hands  upon  me,  breathed 

A  wanton  wonder  at  my  very  lips : 

"Kissed  me?"  her  white  throat  fluted,  "Oh,  you 
dreamed ! 

You've  just  been  listening  to  the  mocking-bird !" 

"Listen  to  the  mocking-bird!"  the  echo  laughed. 
One  bough  of  the  bloom  swung  clear,  and  floating 

set 

The  melting  touch  and  throb  on  hollow  dusk 
Of  white  footfalls,  Virginia.    She  to  me, 


14  Our  Dancing  Days 

And    Beverly   straight   to    Georgia   came,   and 

caught 

Up  from  her  feet:  "You  little  devil,"  he  said, 
' '  It  took  a  mocking-bird  to  bring  you  to  it ! " 

VIII 
The  Figure  of  Death.     I  think  they  sang  at 

dawn, 
The  mocking-birds.     There's  nothing  now  but 

guns, 

And  out  into  the  guns  the  Colonel  steps 
Briskly,  and  with  one  aide  goes  pointing,  here, 
There,   for   the   Regiment's  way  that  so   lies 

trapped 

In  the  Bloody  Angle.    I  see  the  old  man  laugh, 
The  gray  moustaches  and  the  flash  of  teeth. 
I  see  the  boy  stand  crisp  and  cool  erect, 
With  all  his  lifelong  grace  and  insolence 
Upon  him,  in  his  khaki  long  and  gaunt 
And  like  dead  gold,  and  under  his  hat's  brim 
The  beauty  that  was  like  a  scornful  girl's 
Pouting,  the  cigarette  between  his  lips. 
I  see,  but  never  quite  can  catch  his  eyes. 

These  were  the  two  with  roses  on  their  swords 
When  they  rode  out  the  cheering  streets  from 
home. 


The  Mocking-Bird  15 

But  one  had  roses  with  a  lady's  gloves 
Twined.    And  the  lady's  gloves  were  now  as  red. 
Five  men  went  out  for  them,  and  four  remained. 
A  second  five.    And  then  the  Regiment 
Went  over  them  and  took  it,  El  Caney, 
Took  it,  and  brought  them  back.    I  think  they 

sang 
Again  at  sunset,  yes,  the  mocking-birds. 

IX 

Golden    swords    of    pain    whose    points    were 

wreathed 
With  flowers,  and  left  for  wound  the  color  and 

scent, 

Young  passion,  the  sweet  adder  at  her  breast, 
The  song  was  life,  and  death  was  in  the  song. 

In  May  we  danced,  in  May  we  danced  to  it. 
Though  none  was  dancing  when  we  came  again ; 
The  jocund  gliding  sweetness  lost  itself 
In  babbling  voices;  then  our  names  were  cried, 
They  broke  upon  us  like  a  snowfall,  like 
A  wind  of  laughter :  oh,  the  Two  had  told. 
And  next  the  violins  deepened  tone  and  time 
To  fatal,  Lohengrin,  and  they  all  caught  hands 
And  sang  it,  and  we  danced  it,  light  and  slow, 
And  round  and  round  the  circle,  two  and  two. 


16  Our  Dancing  Days 

And  last,  without  transition  as  it  seemed, 
The  lamps  were  out,  and  in  a  cave  of  dusk 
The  Figure  was  the  Lantern,  and  the  last. 
And  all  of  us  went  ghostly  and  sea-green, 
And  hid  among  us  and  let  go  the  rich 
Rose-golden  moons  that  splashed  the  gloating 

flame 

On  throats  and  under-arms,  to  each  of  us 
A  honeymoon*  a  bed-time,  a  hearth-fire. 
For  each  danced  with  his  own,  and  I  with  mine, 
And  he  between  Virginia  and  his  sword; 
Lovers  immortal;  Raleigh  with  Regina, 
And  Bennett  Amy,  and  Lambert  Monnie,  and 

Knolles 

In  khaki  and  he  too  between  his  sword 
And  Julie ;  and  to  each  the  violins, 
But  only  we  danced  to  the  mocking-bird. 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild 


"H 


OW  do  you  like  it  ? ' '  Betty  Craven  said, 
Arms  out  before  me,  turning  round  and 
round. 


'Twas  fresh  from  Norway,   'twas  a  peasant's 

dress : 

A  smart  red  bodice,  glittering  with  white  beads, 
That  left  her  arms  and  shoulders  bare  through 

white ; 

An  apron  broidered  open  white  upon 
The  smart  black  skirt,  and  broidered  open  white 
The  stockings  to  the  smart  black  slippers ;  last, 
A  cap  of  spangled  lace  upon  her  hair. 
This  was  the  wonder,  Betty 's  dense  dark  hair 
Was  never  of  the  north ;  nor  Betty 's  eyes 
That  had  such  violets  angry  with  the  wind, 
The  laughter  such  an  eddy  of  dark  stars; 
Nor  any  of  her,  the  arms  and  golden  hands 
That  fell   like   fragrance,   and   the   feet  that 

stayed 


20  Our  Dancing  Days 

Like  lilies.    Oh,  'twas  full  of  Spanish  snow, 
'Twas  full  of  mandolins,  the  little  skirt 
That  now  so  startled  on  the  milkwhite  step. 

"Gyp  sent  it  out  of  Norway,"  Betty  explained, 
"For  me  to  wear  for  you.    It's  all  we  get." 

"It's  all  I  want,"  I  said.     "You  didn't  be 
lieve—?" 

"I  did!    And  she  was  coming!"    Violets  quite 

Furious  with  the  wind.    ' '  She  got  as  far 

As  England.    But  her  old  mad  Princess  sent 

A  leash  of  cablegrams,  and  snatched  her  back,. 

Just  as  she  was  embarking  on  the  boat 

At  Liverpool.    And  now  she'll  never  come." 

She  turned,  she  brought  me  a  slender  little  book. 

II 

"Brynhild !"  upon  a  lift  of  breast  I  said. 
And  whether  near  to  laughter  or  to  tears 
I  hardly  know,  the  book  I  made  for  Gyp 
Between  my  hands,   I  looked  round   Betty's 

rooms 

Like  one  arrested  by  some  instant  touch 
That  looks  about  the  house  where  he  was  bred 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  2 1 

And  thinks  "Why,  this  is  home !"    'Twas  mine 

indeed. 

The  windows  yellow  with  the  maples,  yes, 
The  floors  dark  gold,  and  the  old  clock  striking 

four. 
I  was  in  love  with  Betty.    Not  with  Gyp. 

Did  Betty  know  it  ?    She  stood  as  if  on  tiptoe, 
Hands  to  her  hair,  and  arms  from  fallen  sleeves, 
And  slim  red  waist  left  naked;  tightening  lips 
Kemodelling  her  chin,  and  narrowing  eyes 
That  in  their  lashes  swerved  but  were  not  gone. 
And  richly  calculating,  richly  too 
Confessing,  with  no  motion  Betty  seemed 
To  bow,  to  strut,  to  dance,  catch  hands  and  run, 
Lift  lips  and  snatch  away.  Did  Betty?  Lord.  .  . 

"  You  never  give  me  poems ! "  she  pouted  now. 
And  now,  as  the  book  came  open  in  my  hands, 
She  whisked  from  it  a  letter,  whisked  and 

tucked 

Into  the  scarlet  bodice :  "That"  she  laughed, 
"Is  quite  another  poem!    "We're  reading  yours. 
I've  read  it,  yes,  but  you're  to  read  it  to  me." 
She  perched  midway  the  couch,  she  crossed  her 

feet 
Beneath  her,  loosening  from  her  knees  the  skirt. 


22  Our  Dancing  Days 

''With  notes,  you  know.    The  story  is  different. 
Isn't  it  strange  that  you  and  I,  last  night, 
Were    listening    to    Briinnhilde?      She's    the 
same  ? ' ' 

So  on  the  floor  I  sat  against  the  couch, 
An  elbow  at  her  knee,  and  told  the  tale, 
The  older  finer  story  of  the  north, 
By  verse  and  verse,  with  much  between  the 
lines. 

m 

If  I  was  asleep, 

If  the  sleeper  was  I, 

Then  it  was  I 

That  harked  and  groped 

Where  time  never  was, 

On  the  hunt  of  myself : 

I  and  no  other 

Where  there  was  nothing 

That  knew  it  and  named  it : 

This  was  the  doom, 

This  was  the  doom, 

The  doom  of  Odin. 

But  who  was  Odin? 

And  what  was  doom? 

And  I,  and  I, 

If  I  was  asleep  ? 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  23 

IV 

Betty,  or  Gyp,  or  I,  whoever  slept 
Confessed  it  by  the  waking.    Then  'twas  I. 
I  dreamed,  I  dreamed  this  year  of  my  return 
That  so  had  closed  the  new  life  with  the  old, 
And  even  now  was  dreaming  the  old  dream 
Back  to  the  startled  moment  when  I  first 
Revisited  Gyp's  house,  as  if  her  grave, 
This  house  of  Gyp's  long  absence,  and  found 

here 
Gyp's  sister,  Gyp's  own  changeling,  Gyp's  last 

trick, 
Betty  the  elf  grown  woman  with  a  look. 

And  the  old  bold  story  had  no  witchcraft  more, 
No  stranger  interchange  of  eyes  and  lips 
And  breathing  bodies  of  the  two  that  wooed 
Brynhild,  than  now  the  exchange  of  each  for 

each, 

Person  for  person,  of  the  girls  I  loved. 
That  was  a  blindness  in  the  ancient  tale, 
And  none  could  tell  it  clearly.    Yet  to  me 
It  happened,  and  to  them,  and  even  now 
Was  instantaneous  change  of  mask  for  mask. 

Her  eyes  were  gold,  the  color  of  clear  fire. 
Why,  no,  more  cool  than  pansies  in  the  dew. 


24  Our  Dancing  Days 

Her  face  was  like  a  coolest  cameo 
Of  firm  red  lips,  of  faintly  hollowed  cheeks 
Untouched  by  her  own  flame  of  burning  hair, 
Her  copper-lustered  hair.    Why  no,  now  no : 
Untouched  by  that  thick  gloom  and  gloss  of 

night 
Which  now  let  slip  the  black  half-wings  of 

storm 
On  either  side  her  veils  of  long  lash-play. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?"  Betty  touched  her 

hair. 
"I'm  pretty  as  I  can  be.    Go  on,  go  on." 

V 

I  slept  in  the  firelight. 

Cold  was  the  hall, 

And  my  bed  was  a-cold, 

But  the  fire  danced  sweetly. 

And  a  wind  on  the  roof 

From  over  old  battlefields 

Blew,  and  I  knew 

That  never  again 

Should  I  ride  the  wind's  whinney 

With  the  dead  on  my  knees, 

Never  again  go 

Choosing  the  slain, 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  25 

But  wait  to  be  chosen. 

I  was  a  woman. 

And  I  was  waiting. 

And  yule  came  white, 

And  lammas  came  green, 

But  never  came  he 

That  should  wake  me  and  make  me 

The  thrall  of  a  house-fire, 

The  slave  of  a  needle, 

The  drudge  of  a  love. 

VI 

No,  no,  the  woman  chooses,  not  the  man. 
And  I  was  never  faithless,  nor  forgot, 
And  needed  no  love-potion.    It  was  they, 
The  two  I  loved,  the  two  that  loved  me,  chose, 
Not  I,  though  both  were  open  breasts  to  me. 
For  Betty  now,  Gyp  then,  was  always  armed, 
Always  defenseless ;  like  a  nude  in  the  sun, 
A  nude  in  the  sun,  a  nude  with  a  naked  sword, 
That  with  the  airy  glitter  of  point  and  edge 
All  round  her  haggard  laughing  loveliness, 
Dark  Betty  as  burning  Gyp,  made  to  my  eyes 
A  costume.    All  how  like  and  how  unlike, 
Black  Betty,  brazen  Gyp,  the  old  bold  tale, 
The  quarrel  of  the    queens,  not  less  but  more 


26  Our  Dancing  Days 

Queens,  when  the  two  were  naked  in  the  river, 
But  only  one  was  naked  of  the  ring. 

"Jimmy!      You    make    me    nervous!"    Betty 

laughed : 

Laughed,  as  primly  over  her  knees  again 
She  tugged  the  little  skirt  that  spilled  such 

snow: 

Laughed  with  a  subtle  swim  of  her  dark  eyes : 
The  stars  slipped,  and  the  rich  still  mask  of 

night 
Trembled  and  wavered,  danced  and  glanced  on 

me. 

VII 

I  slept  in  the  firelight. 
I  lay  like  a  warrior. 
But  no  man  ever 
Coiled  in  an  iron-cap 
Braids  so  many, 
Or  stretched  from  the  ring-mail 
Sleek  sleepy  arms 
And  knees  of  such  dimple, 
And  no  man  ever 
Had  breast  that  was  tipped 
With  two  sparkles  of  firelight. 
What  was  between  them? 
The  thorn  of  sleep. 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  27 

I  had  chosen  in  battle 
The  one  that  he  would  not, 
Odin :  and  now, 
Now  I  was  this  thing, 
The  girl  in  the  armor, 
Left  sleeping,  left  lone 
In  the  hall  of  the  windows 
That  drowsed  and  doted 
"With  the  fire  outdoors, 
The  fire  in  the  moat. 
And  never  the  rain, 
Nor  the  mist,  nor  the  moon 
Could  quench  the  quivering 
Ripple  and  run 
That  slid  up  the  stone 
And  over  the  shields 
And  up  to  the  topmost 
Wild  banner  in  heaven. 

vm 

"Our  quiet  windows  too,"  said  Betty.  "Look." 

"We  looked  a  moment:  fragrant  afternoon 
Breathed  at  the  open  windows,  glow  in  glow 
Of  maples ;  and  so  soft  and  hushed  an  air, 
"We  heard  a  piano,  somewhere  over  the  street, 
Bubble  and  chime  as  if  it  danced  midway 


28  Our  Dancing  Days 

The  yellow  leafage ;  and  the  only  stir 
Was  in  the  sunlit  curtains  of  the  bay, 
Still  shadows  of  still  leaves  that  fell  and  fell, 
Stirred  in  the  curtains,  crept  across  the  floor. 

"Here's  something  in  the  story  too,"  I  said. 
"As  I  came  down  the  street  a  sparrowhawk 
Flew  before  me,  flew  before  me,  and  perched 
Upon  your  highest  gable.    And  that's  how 
Sigurd  the  Volsung  found  his  Brynhild  once. 
That  was  after  the  waking.    And  I  mine." 

"And  the  leaves  fall  in  Norway,"  Betty  said. 
And  from  the  scarlet  bodice  drawing  again 
The  letter,  here  and  there  she  read  it  me, 
Smooth  eyelids  and  smooth  cheeks  and  smooth 

round  throat 

And  red  lips  playing,  and  only  now  and  now 
Lash-lifting  to  the  cool  and  conscious  look. 

"  'Ah,  but  I  know  that  Father's  growing  old, 
And  Betty  is  grown  a  woman,'  "  Betty  read. 
"  'What  can  I  do?    I'm  wanted  over  here. 
Aslauga'  —  that's    her    Princess,    that's    her 

Monster,  — 

'Aslauga  keeps  me,  when  no  other  will. 
She'll  never  live  without  me,  so  she  cries 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  29 

With  passion,  and  I  kiss  her,  and  we  weep, 

And  say  no  word  for  weeks  of  going  home. 

We  aren't  even  stared  at  any  more. 

But  sometimes  it 's  as  strange  as  first  it  was : 

The  great  Norsewoman,  fair  and  fat  and  —  yes, 

She 's  forty !  —  and  the  odd  American, 

The  pale-green  girl  that's  with  her  everywhere. 

Haven 't  I  told  you  that  she  calls  me  Yip  ? 

Tell   that   to    Jimmy.     And    tell    him  .  .  .'  " 

Betty  stopped, 
And  folded  up  the  sheet,  and  tucked  away. 

I  said:  "You'll  tell  me?"  and  she  answered: 
"Read!" 

IX 

The  doom  of  Odin 

Is  never  all  good, 

Never  all  bad. 

No  coward  could  ride 

Through  the  moat,  no  dastard 

Ford  the  flickering 

Witch-fire  and  wake  me. 

Maybe  no  man. 

But  once  in  a  dream, 

When  the  fire  seemed  a  sunset, 

I  saw  how  a  boy 

Drove  horse  after  horse 


30  Our  Dancing  Days 

Into  the  river-flash: 

One  swam  over, 

A  great  gray  stallion. 

That  was  his  horse. 

And  once  when  the  fire 

Seemed  the  flame  of  a  forge, 

I  saw  how  a  lad 

Broke  sword  after  sword 

Like  bells,  but  the  last 

Bell-clang  was  the  anvil 

Cloven  in  twain. 

A  great  gray  war-blade, 

That  was  his  sword. 

And  once  in  a  lightning 

I  saw  the  white  horses 

Eunning  the  sea, 

And  a  long  sea-dragon 

Plunge,  and  the   dragon 

Dip  on  the  sail. 

And  he  was  a  man. 

And  that  was  his  ship. 


"It's  long  since  Gyp  has  written  me,"  I  said, 
Filling  a  pipe  to  Betty:  "  I  don't  know  now: 
How  ever  did  she  meet  her  Princess  first?" 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  31 

"Gyp's  way,"  said  Betty.     "When  she  went 

abroad, 

Jimmy,  I  really  truly  think  'twas  you, 
You  and  your  poem,  that  turned  her  fancy 

north. 

She  went  alone  to  Norway,  for  to  see 
And  to  admire,  to  learn  Norwegian,  learn 
Life,  and  to  make  you  follow  her,  maybe, 
And  maybe  to  forget  you.    In  a  month 
She  was  a  feature  at  the  village  feast, 
Declaiming   Peer   Gynt!     There   the  Princess 

came. 
Peer  Gynt,  or  else  your  poem  turned  to  Norse." 

"A  boy's   pipe-smoke."     I  waved  away  the 

shoal 
Between  us.    "But  the  very  Norns  were  such." 

"But  weren't  there  five  poems  to  Gyp?"    The 

smoke 

Avoided  her  bare  arm  and  followed  after. 
"Vanna,  and  Badoura,  and  Isolt. 
All's  left  of  her,  the  torso  of  Isolt. 
And  here's  the  Brynhild.    So  I  know  them  all 
Except  the  Hylas.    And  to  me  not  one. " 


32  Our  Dancing  Days 

"To  you?    No  verses,  Betty.    Never  a  verse. 
I  wish  you  to  consider  what  that  means." 
Then  I  sat  straight,  I  stared  about  the  rooms. 
"Why,   where's   the   Portrait?     Where's   the 

Gyp?"  I  cried, 
"Tony  Farrar's  Dancing-Girl  in  Gold?" 

"My  dear!"     She  said  it  softly.     Then  she 

laughed : 
Laughed  at  the   quaint  dismay  I  must  have 

looked : 

Laughed  richly,  laughed  contentedly,  a  fresh 
Wind  for  my  riding,  eyes  and  breath  on  me 
Luxuriously  abandoned.    "That's  indeed 
A  poem  to  me.    I  had  it  moved  today. 
Upstairs,  to  where  it  shall  forever  hang, 
Eight  opposite  my  bed.    I'll  take  you  up. 
No,  no,  don't  shut  the  book.    We've  yet  to  kill 
The  dragon,  and  we've  yet  to  ride  the  fire." 

"And  yet  to  kiss  the  sleeping  beauty,"  I  said. 

XI 

All  the  green  hangings 
Of  the  hall  in  the  firelight 
Rippled  like  cliffs 
In  the  run  of  a  like-light 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  33 

Up  from  the  water-sun, 

Cliffs  of  old  fern. 

And  I,  I  was  watching 

Hard,  for  the  brink 

Of  the  rock  was  alive, 

The  snake-neck  wavering 

Down,  and  the  beak  of  it 

Gabbled  the  water, 

And  reared,  and  swallowing 

Keeled  to  the  welkin. 

The  dragon  was  drinking. 

And  that  was  Fafnir. 

I  named  it,  the  name 

That  I  never  had  heard, 

Though  now  there  was  nothing 

But  the  run  up  the  fern 

Of  the  waterfire.    Hark, 

I  knew  I  would  hear  it, 

The  death-wallow  of  thunder. 

And  I  knew  when  it  died 

It  was  Fafnir  was  dead. 

And  the  fire  ran  the  fern 

Like  the  glance  of  my  eyes  to  him, 

Look,  look,  blood-red, 

Oh  for  Fafnir 's-Bane 

"Wiping  his  reeking 

Great  brand  on  the  bracken ! 


34  Our  Dancing  Days 

XII 

"But  Betty,  Betty,  how  it  should  be  done! 
Think  of  the  music  that  we  heard  last  night ! 
No,    don't,"    I    said.      "Alas    for    Brynhild's 
dream." 

And  Betty  sprang  across  me,  hand  and  foot 
A  flash  and  fragrance  on  me,  and  perched  now 
At  the  piano  played  that  music  through, 
That  music ;  oh,  but  light,  but  light,  her  way. 

And  I  sat  still,  and  all  my  heart  again 
Leaped  to  our  great  soprano  while  she  played, 
And  the  drunken  violins  shrieking  all  at  once 
Wide-winging  discords  that  were  yet  all  tune, 
And  the  whinneying  oboes :  hark,  'twas  she  her 
self, 

Hoyotoho !    Hoyotoho !    And  wild 
As  swallows  that  went  mad  about  the  sky 
The  rocket  of  her  vivid  crying  topped 
The  topmost  wind  of  music,  and  at  last 
Struck  one  amazing  note  so  clear  and  high 
'Twas  like  an  arrow  into  the  heart  of  heaven. 
The  chooser  of  the  slain.   'Twas  we  were  chosen. 
Snatched  by  the  eagle  of  her  golden  voice.  .  . 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  35 

Voices  of  children  playing  on  the  pave. 
And  the  old  fragrance,  yes,  of  burning  leaves. 
A  long  long  autumn  moment  sweet  and  sad, 
The  sun  was  from  the  curtains,  from  the  trees, 
And  the  room  dusky,  lighted  yet  with  gold. 
"Is  it  so  noble  a  story?"    Betty's  hands 
Were  fallen  in  her  lap :  her  eyes  came  cool : 
"So  noble  murders,  noble  treacheries?" 

I  crossed  to  her;  there  was  a  storied  old 
Deep  armchair  in  the  window-bay,  that  faced 
The  darkening  room;  and  there  I  brought  the 

book, 

And  there  brought  Betty,  like  a  minuet, 
Curtesying  in  her  red  and  white  and  black, 
With  a  kiss  upon  her  fingers ;  and  she  perched 
Against  my  shoulder  on  the  chair 's  wide  arm. 


XIII 

All  the  green  hangings 
In  the  light  of  the  fire 
Seemed  woods  that  waited 
The  change  of  the  leaf, 
When  the  stags  are  lean, 
When  the  fern  is  brown, 


36  Our  Dancing  Days 

And  the  birch-top  yellow, 

Yet  green  go  the  ways. 

And  I,  I  was  listening 

Hard,  for  I  heard 

The  talk  of  the  woodpeckers 

Over  the  brown  burned 

Acorns  pattering 

Down  through  the  oak -leaves : 

Words,  had  the  woodpeckers 

Words,  that  I  heard  them? 

"He  rides  from  the  Dragon-Heath 

Nearer  and  nearer, 

She  sleeps  upon  Hindfell, 

Green  go  the  ways ! ' ' 

And  he  came,  and  he  came, 

But  his  eyes  were  away  from  me. 

Only,  I  saw 

The  great  gray  stallion, 

And  the  bicker  of  the  chain-mail, 

And  once  how  his  bridle-hand 

Flashed,  and  I  knew 

'Twas  the  ring  of  the  dwarf 

Andvari,  the  ring 

That  Fafnir  the  Dragon 

Had  died  to  let  go. 

And  he  rode,  and  he  rode 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  37 


Singing  —  I  knew  the  words 

"Green  go  the  ways 

To  the  Hall  upon  Hindfell !" 


XIV 

' '  Gold  go  the  ways ' '  said  Betty  at  my  shoulder, 
"To  the  house  in  Maple  Street.    And  look,  the 
fires." 

Children  were  burning  leaves  about  the  street, 
"W"e  breathed  the  fragrance;  and  on  Betty's 

walls 

Was  light  as  of  old  hearth-fires,  memories, 
Dreamy,  dreamy,  and  dancing  rosy-red 
Till  all  the  room  grew  brighter  as  the  dusk 
Deepened.    And  I  took  Betty's  hand,  and  drew 
Her  cool  arm  round  my  neck,  and  to  my  heart 
Her  captured  fingers.    And  I  slipped  the  book 
Behind  the  scarlet  bodice,  and  around, 
To  lay  it  open  in  her  lap.    "You  read," 
I  said  to  Betty.    On  her  breast  the  beads 
Shot  little  sparkles,  clicked  as  faint  as  fancy, 
Against  my  cheek.    But  Betty  took  the  book, 
And  bravely,  without  a  falter,  read  the  end. 


38  Our  Dancing  Days 

XV 

Dew  in  a  rose 
That  panted  and  laughed 
"With  the  wet  bee 's  sweetness, 
Light  upon  eyelids 
That  clung  against  opening, 
Cool  gray  windows 
And  the  fire  come  in, 
The  first  that  I  saw 
Was  my  own  hand  lifted 
And  ringed  with  the  ring, 
And  then  his  eyes, 
Sigurd  the  Volsung, 
Sigurd  that  leaned  to  me 
Yet  from  his  kissing  me, 
Me  —  now  I  knew  myself ! 
Valkyrie !    Valkyrie ! 
Brynhild  the  Lover! 

XVI 

And  "Oh,  poor  Gyp!"  she  said.    And  we  were 

still, 

Watching  the  firelight  dancing  on  the  walls, 
Listening  to  the  children  on  the  paves, 
And,  once  again,  a  piano,  far  away, 
Playing  from  the  Valkyries,  nothing  else. 


The  Waking  of  Brynhild  39 

We  heard  it  through.    Then  suddenly  the  book 
Slid  from  her  lap  with  none  to  pick  it  up. 
"I  wasn't  asleep."  she  gasped,  "never  asleep! 
No,  I  must  go  and  dress.    And  we  're  to  have 
The  real  mince-pie  I  made  you  with  my  hands. 
You  make  the  lights.    There's  Father  coming 
home." 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas 


A    mask  for  every  wave  to  drop  and  lift, 
Face  up  to  the  hollow  of  heaven,  lying 

afloat 

Upon  their  hands  that  clapped  me  feet  to  throat, 
Caught  me   and   clasped,   loosed  me   and  set 

adrift, 

Upon  their  palms,  my  nymphs,  their  fingertips, 
And  only  now  and  then  pulled  back  to  take 
The  sudden  birdsong  in  my  throat,  the  break 
Over  my  face  of  laughter  and  of  lips, 
I  took  the  sliding  cloud  into  me  thus, 
The  long  wave-crawling  in  my  veins  so  felt, 
It  seemed  indeed  that  I  must  tremble  and  melt 
And  suffer  a  water-change  delicious, 
Delicious  and  destroying,  until  I  lay 
Scattered  in  white  wave-play, 
And  veining  with  my  heart  the  ripple  away. 


n 


Ah,  yes,  but  one  should  see  the  river-light 
Come  beating  on  his  eyelids,  till  the  page 


44  Our  Dancing  Days 

Bipples,  remembering  how  he  swam  indeed, 
And  in  that  buoyant  indolence  embraced 
Kipple  and  cloud  at  once,  and  at  one 's  cheek 
Fire,  and  across  one 's  very  face  the  blue 
Kingfisher's  wide-winged  swerve,  to  make  it 
real. 

The  fifteen  finished  idyls,  there  they  were, 
In  the  old  progression.    First  Theocritus. 
"A  hollow  land,  a  blossoming  waterside, 
Where  in  the  midst  the  nymphs  arrayed  their 

dance, 

The  sleepless  deities  only  seen  by  chance, 
Malis,  Nycheia,  and  Eunice  April-eyed. 
And  now  the  boy  was  dipping  with  the  jar, 
And  now  the  nymphs  had  caught  him  head  and 

hand, 

For  love  of  the  Argive  lad  fluttered  and  fanned 
The  hearts  of  them.  .  ."  Why  not?  And  thence 

by  verse 

And  verse  proceeding.    Summer  mirrors.    None 
Of  winter,  a  flight  beyond  me.    Autumn,  yes. 
Cold  blows  the  autumn  on  a  swimmer's  head. 
"The  floating  leaves  surprised  us,  touched  like 

cold 

Flat  hands  and  clung :  Nycheia 's  limpid  head 
With  sudden  wine-dark  leaves  was  chapleted, 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas  45 

And  Mails  perked  a  faun's-ear  pointed 
gold. 

What  fish  go  over  like  a  flock  of  birds. 

"What  bells  the  ripples  ring.  What  stars  come 
down. 

"Ghosts  of  the  golden  thighs  went  up  black 
night : 

A  bubble  of  gold  had  slipped  against  my  brow 

And  clung  there,  —  oh,  the  moon,  that  sud 
denly  now 

Shot  to  the  topmost  heaven  aloft  alight.  .  ." 

Why,  all  my  youth  was  in  it.    What  a  thing, 
I  used  to  take  the  notebook  in  my  teeth 
And  swim  Scioto  to  the  diving  log, 
Dive,  and  hold  on  by  stones,  come  up  and  write 
Wet-fingered,  and  in  love  with  all  green  words, 
And  all  still  meanings.    If  the  verse  runs  dry, 
At  least  I  drank.    Ah,  as  indeed  I  drank 
My  fill  of  pure  spring-water,  thrilling  cold, 
At  the  river's  bottom,  like  a  child  that  finds 
Thirst  and  his  mother's  breast  together  at  once. 
And  I  drank  much  who  learned  how  every  hour 
Is  something  new  and  strange  in  the  water- 
world  ; 

Waves  now,  a  little  dance  of  up  and  down 
Are  waves,  and  pass  the  motion  on  away, 


46  Our  Dancing  Days 

The  seeming  of  the  surface ;  he  who  dives 
Into  the  quiet  beneath  looks  up  and  sees 
The  gather  and  break-apart  of  subtle  lines 
Across  an  emerald  light;  no  more  than  that. 
And  every  hour  is  silence,  wonderful. 
Only,  like  the  opening  of  a  door 
That  shuts  again  on  music,  one  can  hear 
His  comrade  diving,  entering  so  the  calm 
And  the  inviolate  color.    What  of  her? 

I  dived  for  Hylas  once  to  hear  her  call 
For  calling  Heracles;  the  weird  strange  voice 
Came  insult,  and  the  caller  ankle-plucked 
Vanished  from  air;  how  then  her  green-capped 

face 

Was  dark  against  the  laced  and  quivering  flame 
That  burst  into  such  jets  of  snow ;  no  myth, 
But  breast-deep  fury  footing  the  ribbed  sand 
That  held  our  shadows  in  a  net  of  fire 
Was  Zoe  splashing !    Yes,  that  nymph  was  Zoe. 

And  Gyp,  and  Gyp,  could  she  indeed  forget 

The  actual  fact  and  comedy  of  it, 

The  underwater  kiss  we  tried  to  kiss? 

"If  you  can  catch  me!"    And  all  at  once  she 

sprang 
Toe-tip  and  dived ;  and  I,  into  the  bowl 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas  47 

Of  brimming  where  she  melted ;  turning  deep, 
I  saw  her  sweep  of  motion  smoking  gold 
Turn  too  across  the  water-sun.    The  kiss? 
We  nearly  drowned.    We  never  tried  it  more. 

And  Bee  the  wedded  woman,  Bee  that  sent 
The  book  for  bride 's-gift  back  to  Betty  now, 
As  all  things  else  come  back  to  Betty  now, 
Why,  now  I  vowed  a  bachelor's  last  night 
To  Bee,  the  nymph  she  was,  and  with  due  rites 
To  celebrate,  with  each  refill  of  pipe 
Between  the  firelight  and  the  lamp  a  verse, 
And  naught  of  Betty,  of  Betty  naught  at  all, 
Child,  you  were  not  a  sonnet  yet  of  years. 

ni 

Wild  wind,  what  wild  wind  wantoned  in  my 

Three? 
They    courted    every    lightning,    flashed    and 

glanced 

Naked  and  vivid  to  the  storm,  and  danced 
Three  like  a  hundred,  beckoning  bold  and  free. 
And  then  the  blind  rain  struck,  the  water  hissed, 
The  water  smoked,  and  settled  into  spray 
Beneath  the  fog  of  tempest,  levelled  and  lay 
Shrilling  a  tight  song,  one  flat  shoal  of  mist. 


48  Our  Dancing  Days 

Where  were  my  dancers  heaven  had  fallen  to 

woo? 

Under  the  multitudinous  crystalline 
Icicled  nipples,  from  the  shrieking  keen, 
The  keen  cold  pelting,  I  dropped  homeward  too. 
Dusked   dying   circles,   moment's   films,   were 

shed 

On  dark  light  overhead. 
The  Three  were  orb  on  orb  of  sleep  outspread. 

IV 

"Look  not  so  strange  upon  your  friend,"  said 

Bee. 

"No,  I'll  be  honest.    Do  look  strange.    In  place 
Of  Gyp  herself  here's  one  mere  Bee  Carlisle 
To  greet  a  certain  Jimmy  Usher,  come 
This  moment,  which  is  earlier  than  his  word. 
And  Gyp's  gone  over  to  meet  and  bring  you 

back. 

And  I  'm  Gyp 's  guest,  and  this  is  my  third  day. 
She's   not   had   time   to   warn  you.     All   ex 
plained?" 

Even  from  the  first  surprise  with  which  she  met, 
Bee  in  her  bathing-costume  on  Gyp's  dock, 
My  greeting,  it  was  fate  in  her  bold  eyes ; 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas  49 

It  was  as  if  when  my  eyes  said  to  hers, 

We  two  can  love !  hers  answered,  "Why,  we  do ! 

And  while  she  spoke  the  long  white  coat  blew 

out, 

Blew,  in  a  fine  tense  curve  like  wings,  and  left 
Her  figure  brilliant,  in  the  grapeskin  black 
Only  from  breast  to  hips,  and  only  else 
Black-sandalled,  brilliant;  with  the  gay  white 

cap 

Hiding  her  hair,  and  folded  to  one  ear, 
She  looked  the  lady  of  a  virelay 
Masked  as  a  boy,  turned  what  a  rakish  page, 
Escaping  to  her  lover.    Me.    I  said : 
"And  what  else  are  the  coat  and  sandals  for?" 

"What  else  than  what?"  she  laughed,  "than 

what  you  mean?" 

Yes,  what  I  meant :  to  have  a  swim  with  Bee 
Had  turned  already  tame,  to  be  one  more 
Couple  of  all  the  couples  hand  in  hand 
That  danced  against  the  breakers,  girls  that 

posed 

Arms  out,  a  lift  of  knee,  a  jut  of  hip, 
Against  the  heavy  snowdrift,  and  were  lost, 
The  heads  like  flowers  along  the  next  wave- 
slope, 


50  Our  Dancing  Days 

"Why,  but  a  moment  since  I  could  not  dream 
Adventure  finer:  I  could  now.  "You  mean 
To  run  away  together  ?  I  '11  go  dress ! ' ' 

"You're  dressed,"  I  said:  "we're  rowing  across 

the  bay, 
We're    going  for  wine   for   drinking   on  the 

rocks, 
To  read  the  Book  of  Hylas  I've  brought  you." 

All  this  was  in  an  actual  moment ;  there, 
Wrapped  in  her  smoke,  my  steamer  went;  the 

sun 
Burned  through  the  cloud  that  at  my  coming 

took 

The  glitter  from  the  water.    And  while  now 
I  dropped  into  the  skiff  within  the  dock 
I  had  half-time  to  wonder  at  myself ; 
And  Brie 's  rich  bold  crowding  of  whitecaps, 
And  every  whitecap  breaking  miles  and  miles, 
The   myriad  bells   of  foam  that   flashed   and 

flocked 

A  joy  unsexed,  beautiful  danger,  they 
That  wreathed  the  water's  green  and  dateless 

youth 
With  jocund  winter  leaping  at  the  brow, 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas  5  1 

They  were  all  discovered  spaces  of  my  heart, 
They  were  all  the  run  of  snow  in  my  own  veins. 
"Jimmy,  you  mean  it?"  Bee  had  cried,  "for 

me?" 
And  hugging  round   her   close   the   coat   she 

laughed, 

And  stooping  reached  a  hand,  a  vivid  arm, 
And  dropped  wings-up  to  me,  and  out  we  came. 


Between  me  and  my  melody  of  her 
She  thrust  her  very  self,  where  on  the  shore 
I  piped  upon  the  wax-bound  pipes  the  more 
To  celebrate  her  eyes,  what  gold  they  were, 
Malis,  within  the  mirrored  noon  who  now 
Made  of  her  face  a  lily,  and  here  and  there 
Bloomed,  and  was  gone,  the  lily  not  so  fair 
Whose  green  stem  bound  itself  upon  her  brow. 
And  the  pipes  warbled :  when  she  looked  at  me, 
Out  of  her  eyes  I  saw  the  white  fear  pass, 
And  leave  them  jewelled  dark,  the  twilight's 

glass. 

And  the  pipes  fainted:  ah,  but  never  she! 
Or  ever  the  thrown  pipes  fell  I  plunged  to  meet 
My  image.    No,  more  sweet. 
Lilies  not  mine,  nor  yet  the  ripple 's  seat. 


52  Our  Dancing  Days 

VI 

I  pulled  into  the  wind,  across  the  bay. 
The  beach,  with  all  its  dancing  water-flowers, 
Fell  off  at  once  behind,  till  shoreward  now 
'Twas  wide  clear  violet-blue  that  shoaled  and 

played 
Through    a    smother    and    shudder    of    sunlit 

amber-green 

That  fell  and  f ountained  whiter  on  white  sands 
In  to  dark  elms  and  uplands  of  the  vine. 
And  these  hung  still,  but  farther  and  more  far. 

Half-way  across  the  bay,  for  very  joy 
I  stayed  the  skiff  upon  the  outstretched  oars; 
For  joy  of  that  wild  cradling,  of  the  dance 
Whose  reel   and   swing  had  passed  into  our 

veins ; 

For  joy  to  ride  the  moments  as  they  came 
And  passed,  with  back-tossed  tresses  of  the 

snow, 
And    yet    were    passing.      Only    this     was 

strange, 

That  on  the  sliding  billow-and-run  the  shore 
Remained  dead-heavy  fact,  the  still  stiff  land 
To  which  in  the  first  giddiness  we  sent 
An  eye  for  balance.    That  was  yesterday, 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas  53 

And  this  was  now.    And  this  was  Bee  that  now 
Leaned  in  from  heaven  and  leaped  out  of  the 

deep 
To  meet  me  in  the  enamored  opposite. 

She  nursed  the  book.    "I  never  dreamed"  she 

said, 

"That  you  could  be  as  sick  for  it  as  I  am. 
I  mean  this  holiday,  this  escape,  from  what 
Has  grown  to  be  the  day's  work.  Making  love." 

Her  gloom  was  desperate.  "Hands  All  Bound!" 

I  laughed. 
"You  shall  go  courtesying  round  the  ring  no 

more. 

And  I  too,  I  '11  take  hands  and  part  no  more. 
Today  at  least.    No  making  love  today. 
But  who's  been  here?    Not  Tony?    Farquhar, 

Guest?"     . 

"No,  Tony  comes  tomorrow."    And  now  she 

laughed. 
"No  doubt  it  seems  we're  doing  the  selfsame 

thing. 

Dick  took  me  sailing.    Yesterday  Ned  Guest 
Canoeing.    Look,  the  withered  waterlily! 
Oh,  but  we'll  sign  and  seal  it,  no  love-making!" 


54  Our  Dancing  Days 

"Steady  the  boat!"    I  leaned  across  the  oars. 
And  Bee  that  leaned  as  quickly  took  my  face 
Lightly,  prettily,  in  her  hands,  and  kissed  me. 
"Now  we  can  read  my  stolen  poem,"  she  said, 
"But  make  her  own  true  first  edition  soon!" 

vn 

Her  hair  asleep,  that  was  the  rich  surprise ; 
'Twas  bound  to  her  head,  'twas  braid  in  braid 

green-mossed, 

And  woven  with  watercress  in  flower  like  frost, 
She  dazzled  more  than  sunlight  on  my  eyes ; 
And  so  my  eyes  that  hung  with  rainbows  air 
Flashed  on  her  beads  of  trembling  wet,  like 

pearls 

And  opals,  that  so  multiplied  the  girl's 
Eyes  to  a  hundred,  glittering  and  aware, 
That  her  eyes  caught  the  panic ;  out  and  through 
The  rape  of  sun  and  shadow  along  the  sand 
We  ran  a  sudden-warbling  hand  in  hand, 
But  shy  of  each  other  in  such  heaven,  two 
That  seemed  ourselves;  and  one  ran  sparkle- 
tressed, 

And  the  eddies  of  her  breast 
Convulsed  with  lovely  anguish  unconfessed. 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas  55 

VIII 

And  that  was  something  to  put  out  of  mind 

The  withered  waterlily,  yes.    A  kiss 

Swung  high,  swung  low,  and  most  all  swung 

round 

Upon  the  oars  I  leaned  across,  till  now 
The  withered  waterlily  was  safe  behind  her. 
'Twas  in  the  living  water  close  to  her ; 
So  clear  it  almost  broke  to  open  air; 
Something  not  sliding  with  the  sliding  wave, 
But  dipping  and  returning.    It  was  like 
A  drowned  man's  hand.    And  "Gyp?"  I  said 

that  dropped 

Back  on  the  oars  full  length,  "her  book  shall  be 
More  better  for  our  reading  of  the  proof." 

' '  The  Book  of  Hylas.    Row,  and  I  '11  read, ' '  said 
Bee. 

'Twas  in  her  lap,  she  had  a  lap  again, 
The  open  book.    I  glanced  beyond  and  saw 
That  knock  upon  the  door  and  floor  of  nothing 
Hang  still  and  dip,  while  now  the  sliding  wave 
Went  by,  as  if  'twere  following  us ;  the  thing 
That  looked  a  man's  hand  reaching  up  to  day. 
In  the  next  wave,  nothiing.    In  the  next  and 
next, 


56  Our   Dancing   Days 

Nothing.    I  had  not  even  glanced  to  shore 
For  fear  of  landmarks.    "No,  not  yet,"  I  said, 
"Not  here  among  your  ghostly  gentlemen 
That  over  running  water  make  their  vows." 

Forgotten  reach  to  the  forgotten  light. 

"Oh,  for  my  ghostly  gentlemen!"    The  last 

Gesture.    Prayer  to  heaven.    Or  curse  at  fate. 

"Ned  and  another  boy  canoed  across 

From  Marblehead,"  she  was  frowning.    "And 

last  night 

When  those  two  boys  put  out  in  a  canoe 
To  cross  four  miles  of  lake,  straight  into  storm, 
And  laughed  at  our  distress,   and  mine  was 

great,  — 
"Well,  you  may  call  them  ghostly  gentlemen!" 

The  ghostly  hand.    I  had  refused  it,  yes. 
That  I  would  do  again,  that  was  for  Bee. 
Yet  how  the  thing  kept  knocking  at  my  heart ! 
"Safe  over,  and  the  ferryman  paid,"  I  said, 
Shipping  the   oars   how   gladly:   "Come   and 
play!" 

IX 

"Pan!"  she  laughed  in  her  throat:  no  thrush 
as  rich. 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas  57 

As  that  one ;  Eunice  fronting  breast  to  air 
Midway  the  current  that  tugged  her  by  the  hair 
Crouched  deeper,  sparkle  of  eyes,  an  instant 

witch. 

So  we  let  go  our  feet,  and  fingers  caught 
At  arm's  length  drifted,  and  the  river-sigh 
Drew  us,  the  shallows  danced  us  down  the  sky, 
The  very  bubble  and  chime  were  in  the  plot. 
How  else  so  dipped  and  dallied  and  swung  wide, 
Without  a  pull  of  hand  or  turn  of  cheek, 
Should  we  be  floated  to  the  sleepy  sleek 
Touch  and  recoil  and  touch  of  side  to  side? 
The  scent  and  blossoms  of  the  grape  hung  low, 
The  leaves  ran  fire,  ran  snow. 
Never  was  thrush  as  rich  as  that  one,  no. 

X 

The  mood  fell  from  me  with  the  touch  of  earth 
When   there    at    the    old   wine-dock   we    dis 
embarked. 

The  mood  that  made  me  fancy  a  drowned  hand. 
And    up    through    ruffling    vineyards    to    the 

towers, 

The  castle  of  cold  stone,  that  looked  so  far 
Over  the  thousand  fleeces  of  the  lake, 
We  came;  where  grapes  glanced  blue  in  blow 
ing  leaves, 


58  Our  Dancing  Days 

Like  her   that  slipped  into   her  sleeves,   and 

flashed 
So  gay  a  grape-stained  nymph;  and  with  the 

coat 

Shut  now,  and  only  her  subtle  insteps  free, 
Discreeter  lady  never  marketed. 
We  brought  from  those  deep  musty  cellars  wine, 
One  flask  of  dry  Catawba.    And  so  came  down 
To  the  rocks,  where  now  the  flashing  crashing 

waves 
Widened  to  silver-sheeted  afternoon. 

So  drunk,  unto  the  utmost  tang  of  it, 
So  drunk  on  its  own  rocks,  the  good  wine  kept 
Its  incommunicable  bouquet  and  bloom, 
And  the  sharp  clinging  flavor  of  the  grape, 
Virgin,  like  knives  of  sweetness.    Pledges  first. 
And  Bee  held  high  the  cup,  we  had  a  cup, 
Let  fall  the  coat,  stood  up  a  splendor,  Bee 
Of  the  old  inviolate  beauty,  Bee  of  all 
The  loyalties  and  the  coquetries,  and  looked 
Young  Ganymede,  if  it  was  Ganymede 
And  not  Himself,  the  long-legged  liquid-eyed 
Young  Love,  that  was  cup-bearer  to  the  gods, 
And  drank.     "To  Gyp!"    "To  Tony!"    And 

as  she  drank 
From  the  deep-creviced  rock  the  silver  fount 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas  59 

Sprang  like  an  apparition  to  the  sun 

Beside  her.    "To  Ned  Guest!"    And  the  ninth 

wave 

Filled  all  the  coves  with  thunder  and  cataracts, 
Rhythmic  confusion,  ordered  hurry,  like 
A  snowdrift,  to  her  very  sandal-soles. 

And  while  we  read  our  Hylas  the  west  blew 
On  bold  bright  waters  naked  to  the  sky. 
Recoiled,  returned,  the  hollow  of  the  wave 
Was  curved  so  smoothly  it  drew  the  imaged  sun 
To  fiery  flosses,  gathering  blaze  on  blaze; 
And  at  its  curl  and  curve,  with  the  instant  sharp 
Shadow  of  its  own  self  upon  itself, 
'Twas  jewel-green  translucence ;  then  the  foam 
Blossomed  and  burst  to  keen  and  lovely  shapes, 
Of  silver  ribbons  falling,  of  reedy  slim 
Hyaline  cups  inverted,  look  you  now, 
'Twas  all  one  climb  of  snow  that  struck  and 

quenched 
Through  fire;  and  there  across  the  wide  wet 

rocks 

The  silver  lilies  stood,  the  fountains  fell ; 
And  now  the  booming  harps  were  glittering 

spray 
That  fell,  and  fell  in  to  us,  and  showered  us 


60  Our  Dancing  Days 

With  the  ninth  wave  whose  pelting  chill  was 

like 

Emotion  in  emotion.    And  through  all 
Our  hearts  went  out  abroad  upon  the  vast 
Beautiful  waters,  to  the  perfect  pure 
Horizon,  to  the  sky,  the  line  of  peace. 


XI 

Suddenly  overhead  the  amber  girl 
Was  hung  in  hollow  haze,  the  diving  sky 
Following  down  to  touch  on  shoulder  and  thigh 
Discovery,  new-moons  of  lighted  pearl. 
How  then  she  melted  into  a  sudden  mist 
Her  shadow-stroke  of  arms  and  legs,  and  how 
The  raining  fires  were  vacant  of  her  now, 
Nycheia  of  the  boast  she  went  unkissed. 
'Twas  far,  'twas  under  the  swallow-cliff,  'twas 

in 

The  deepest  dusk  she  ended  that  wild  chase, 
Collapsing  with  the  inverted  back-flung  face, 
And  curving  on  my  hands  a  glimmer  green 
As  opal :  and  out  on  air  the  swallow  yet 
Along  the  ripple  met 
The  lips  and  nipples  of  the  violet. 


61 


"There  was  a  day,"  said  Bee.  "It's  afterglow. 
There  goes  the  Arrow  across  to  Put-in-Bay 
That  brought  us  home  Our  Lady  of  the  Lake." 

I  dropped  far  out,  a  splash  of  blue  in  gold, 
The  flask,  upon  the  sudden  seeing  again 
The  thing  I  fancied  and  forgot,  a  hand 
That  caught  the  throw.    Not  Hylas  but  another. 
"So  let's  go  face  Calypso,  right,"  I  said. 

"She's  that!"  cried  Bee.    I  held  for  her  the 

coat 
That  held,  "I'd  have  small  pocket  else!"  she 

laughed, 

The  book;  midway  the  softer-sounding  trees, 
"I'm  going  to  need  a  pocket,"  she  professed; 
And  with  the  first  look  back  across  the  bay, 
The  eastward  purple  bloom  of  sky  and  lake 
Where  yet  the  whitecaps  caught  the  afterglow, 
And  where,  no  larger  than  a  golden  gull, 
A  single  boat  danced  on  a  gleam  of  oars, 
"I  knew  it!"  she  cried.    "I  know  who's  with 

her  too." 
She  made  a  face.    "Ned  Guest.    Eeturned  for 

more." 


62  Our  Dancing  Days 

"They've  used  a  glass  to  find  our  boat,"  I  said. 
"Of  all  the  mean  suspicious  .  .  .  No.  it's  not. 
It's  your  tomorrow.  It's  Tony.  Come  be  good." 

"What,   did  I  kiss  you?"     Bee,  she  tugged 

again 

The  white  cap  over  her  ears,  she  tucked  the  last 
Black  ringlet  in  to  sleep.    "That  wasn't  real, 
That  boy's  kiss,  that  unpetticoated  thing." 

"Why  so"  I  said,  "do  circle-dimpled  knees 
Outluster  all  the  gartered:  the  nymph's  kiss." 

"When  I  kiss  Tony  it  shall  be"  she  vowed, 
"Kicking  this  way  and  that  my  skirts  that 

whisper 

'Lady,  lady!'  ' '    And  with  the  laugh  of  that 
We  launched  again,  and  riding  with  the  wind 
Lightly  along  the  fresher-dancing  dusk 
Half-way  we  met  them ;  but  before  the  boats 
Dipped   side  by  side  the  laughter  from   our 

hearts 
Had  vanished.    What  was  Gyp  crying  to  us? 

' '  That  poor  lad 's  body  was  on  our  very  beach ! ' ' 
"Ned  Guest?  "cried  Bee. 


The  Nymph  and  Hylas  63 

Gyp  shook  her  head.    "His  friend. 

He  must  have  been  there  half  the  crowded  day. 

They've  found  the  empty  canoe." 

"But  Ned?  "cried  Bee. 

We  did  not  know  it  then,  'twas  the  last  word 
That  Tony  Farrar  answered:  "Not  yet  found." 
Not  yet,  and  never  yet.    Tony  himself 
By  now  had  turned  the  skiff  between  the  swells 
So  daintily  that  Gyp  not  even  swayed ; 
His  taking  stock  of  us  was  quiet  and  quick, 
As  quick  as  Gyp 's ;  now  as  he  pulled  away 
I  heard  her  sing  the  old  song  under  her  breath, 
The  Hands  All  Round.    And  she  had  smiled  at 

Bee. 
I  though  it  was  Gyp  Craven  that  was  drowned. 

Bee  did  not  smile.    "That  was  his  hand,"  she 
said. 

XIII 

Love,  liked  a  naked  diver,  leaped  and  met 
His  leaping  image,  sudden  and  swift  to  start 
Up  from  the  under-heaven  of  her  heart; 
Plunged,  and  was  gone,  and  the  heaven  is  per 
fect  yet. 


64  Our  Dancing  Days 

And  though  the  burst  and  plunge  was  fathom- 
deep, 

The  naiad  dimpling  drowned  him  in  her  kiss, 
And  took  that  violence  for  no  more  than  bliss, 
And  held  her  buxom  laughter  yet  asleep. 
And  none  that  wandered  by  that  water  knew 
How  Love  was  lost,  and  by  what  waxen  ways 
How  Death  was  found  and  fettered  to  new 
days.  .  . 

(Ah,  Betty,  so  things  all  come  back  to  you.) 

And  Heracles  the  wanderer  and  the  guest 

Is  yet  upon  the  quest, 

But  golden  Hylas  numbered  with  the  blessed. 


Lady  Greensleeves 


Lady  Greensleeves 


OCTOBEK.    On  Regina's  wedding  day, 
While  yet  the  leaves  are  green,  a  storm  of 
snow. 

Snow  in  the  lap  of  summer.    When  I  came 

At  sunset,  yes,  there  was  a  sunset,  home, 

The  wet  streets  mirrored  our  white  roofs  and 

lawns, 

The  maples  were  cross-laced  with  wanton  white, 
And  every  lilac  blossomed  in  cold  jest. 
Snow  that  was  far  more  native  to  my  heart 
Than  those  dark  towers  of  leafage;  that  was 

strange, 

The  bronze  belated  summer,  not  the  white ; 
And  yet  such  wonder,  with  such  sympathy 
It  imaged  thus  my  state  and  circumstance, 
That  I  imagined  how  the  jocund  veil 
Fell  cold  about  her,  fell  what  sudden  snow 
Upon  dark  memory  and  my  own  dim  face. 
Regina  ever  loved  the  tragic  mask. 


68  Our  Dancing  Days 

And  if  indeed  I  loved  the  bride  her  eyes 
I  should  lament  her  lacking  the  one  thing 
Could  add  them  sparkle,  word  of  how  at  home, 
There  in  Ohio,  fancy,  on  that  poor  boy, 
It  snowed,  it  snowed,  when  all  the  leaves  were 
green. 

But  not  in  France.     It's  moonlight  now   in 

France. 
The  mooncloud  drifts,  the  turrets  are  snowed 

with  sleep, 
And  the  dark's  musky  with  the  grapes.    "Well, 

then, 

I  saw  her.    I  swear  I  saw  her.    Here.    Today. 
She  went  before  me  idling  and  alone, 
None  else  in  all  the  street,  and  as  she  went 
She  danced  a  whiter  moment  with  herself, 
Spin  of  a  green  skirt,  slide  of  a  white  shoe. 
Regina  herself  as  when  I  knew  her  first. 

II 

October.    Halloween,  no  doubt  of  that. 
Crossing  suburban  uplands  of  the  beach 
From  Georgia's  house,  I  found  a  lady's  glove 
Fallen  upon  the  path.    My  fancy  again, 
Of  course;  what  followed  color  all;  but  .  .  . 
well, 


Lady  Greensleeves  69 

'Twas  charming  in  my  hands,  the  long  white 

glove. 

'Twas  yet  a  hollow  sheath  that  held  the  shape 
Of  some  young  arm,  the  mold  of  some  young 

hand. 

The  sweet  thing  like  a  relaxation  hung, 
Like  a  caress,  across  my  hands.    Oh,  say  it: 
The    stone-gray    beeches    and    blue-branching 

shadows, 

And  slopes  of  tawny  leaf  and  ancient  green, 
Remembered,  and  the  blue  of  the  brook,  what 

glove 
"Was  kept  and  cousined  by  their  violets  once.  .  . 

Forthwith  I  turned  upon  my  steps,  I  found 
The  glimmer  I  had  passed,  and  took  the  two 
Long-stemmed  autumnal  violets,  why  not? 
And  thereupon  I  met  herself,  green  sleeves 
And  silver  furs,  the  lady  of  the  glove. 

I  think  the  girl  divined  from  my  first  glance, 
Of  such  sheer  wonder  and  incredulous  joy, 
Delight's  long  momentary  breathlessness, 
Divined  some  recognition  not  her  own. 
Ah,  but  Kegina  was  never  quite  so  young. 
Her  eyes  never  so  gentle  and  so  wild. 
Yes,  and  her  throat,  that  naked  in  white  furs 


70  Our  Dancing  Days 

Laughed  with  her  own  voice,  had  quite  other 

words, 
Oh,  the  old  voice  whose  breath  was  plangent 

flutes ! 

'Twas  perfect,  wonderful ;  her  every  move 
Kept  my  heart  racing ;  yet  this  wonder  stood 
Apart  from  me,  a  stranger  to  my  dream, 
A  little  alarmed,  no  doubt,  of  just  my  eyes ; 
Taller  a  trifle,  younger  most  of  all, 
The  full  reincarnation  of  my  love  .  .  . 
She  took  the  glove,  she  took  the  violets, 
She  did  not  know  me.    Lethe  was  between. 


Ill 

November.    Silver  f  our-o  'clock  on  Broad. 
' '  Who 's  that  nice  girl  ? ' '  Virginia  said :  and  I 
Made  truthful  answer:  "Greensleeves.    I  don't 
know. ' ' 

I  think,  I  am  sure,  Virginia  saw  no  likeness. 

Both  my  sisters  have  refused  with  scorn 

The   likeness.     But   that's   later.     Too   much 

scorn. 

Well,  but  I  'm  with  them.    It  was  that  nice  girl 
Who  passed  us,  and  no  other.    Velvet  capped, 


Lady  Greensleeves  71 

And  drifted  to  her  ears  in  milkwhite  furs, 
Her  cold  green  velvets  lifted,  lustrous,  half 
Aflame  with  sky,  and  full  of  little  flames 
The  milkwhite  shoes  laced  almost  to  her  knees. 
How  does  a  woman  judge?     Of  course.     By 

clothes. 

I  did  not  need  it,  I  was  glad  of  it, 
Virgina's  word.    The  nice  girl  spoke  to  me. 
She  came  how  faintly  smiling,  faintly  flushed, 
Into  a  wind  that  only  blew  on  her ; 
I  know  her  hair  was  stirred  to  wanton  mists, 
I  know  the  green  skirts  tied  and  trapped  her 

knees ; 

And  yet  she  did  not  hate  it,  not  my  eyes, 
So  gently  and  intently  came  her  own, 
Eyes  of  such  limpid  light  and  loveliness  .  .  . 

Good  lord,  am  I  to  valentine  again? 

I'll  have  Regina  back  again,  I'll  kill 

False  dream  with  brutal  fact.    Why  should  I, 

though  ? 
'Twas  neither  dream  nor  false  that  she  who 

passed, 

And  clustered  with  the  delicate  pale  day 
So  went  like  eyes,  went  blindly  with  her  own. 
Why  will  you  hurt  me  with  your  beauty,  child? 


72  Our  Dancing  Days 

IV 

November.    Over  the  twilight  cliffs  of  High, 
Fair  skies,  and  all  the  faces  flocked  on  me 
Like  happiness.     Most  like  were  three  young 

girls 

That  passed  with  sunset  on  their  lips,  a  gay 
Salute  of  three  at  once :  the  middle  grace 
Who  but  my  Lady  Greensleeves  ?  Passed  me  by, 
And  left  me  in  a  swift  and  curious  heat 
Naming  the  others.    Newly  rich.    Not  good.  .  . 

"Well,  the  adventure.    There  was  plot  in  it. 

Out  of  the  nothing  one  could  build  a  tale. 

I  missed  a  beat  of  heart,  the  same  she  missed 

That  held  half -turned  her  glance  in  such  arrest ; 

Then  in  the  lash-full  luster  of  her  eyes 

My  own  had  time  to  run  to  her  mates  and  come 

Back  to  the  lashes  and  the  light  again, 

And  take  their  luster  last ;  there  was  a  thing 

To  happen  in  due  order  in  the  large 

Space  of  an  instant.    Ballad  of  her  eyes. 

Let  go,  they  waited  to  be  caught  again. 

They  were  the  fresh  high  color  of  the  sky. 

They  took  one  in  so  softly  one  became 

A  star,  and  melted.    Twice  a  fool  ?    Why  not  ? 


Lady  Greensleeves  73 

They  were  dew  on  fever.     Why  not,  if  the 

crown 
Of  folly  is  the  fear  of  being  a  fool? 

I  heard  the  others  as  they  came  and  passed 
Babble  Greensleeves  her  name.    It's  Moira,  yes. 

V 

December.    But  it  seems  an  April  night. 
I  stood  with  Hampton  waiting  at  the  doors 
My  sisters,  in  the  audience  thronging  out 
Gay  with  the  comedy  we  did  not  hear. 
I  breathed  a  waft  of  fragrance,  I  looked  down 
A  lady 's  very  breast  into  her  flowers, 
Orchids,  flame  and  snow.    Greensleeves  herself. 
With  a  lad  for  lover,  Greensleeves.    Jealous,  I  ? 
Not  jealous.    But  an  instant  rage  was  mine, 
I  could  have  made  her  so  much  happier ! 
Surprised  that  Hampton  knew  her  too,  I  asked : 
I  had  met  her,  yes:  who  was  she?    Money,  he 

said. 

But  give  it  time,  'twould  open  any  doors. 
Irish.    0  'Hara.    Except  maybe  our  own. 
She  'd  smile  'm  open  if  'twas  only  she. 

And  can  one  weigh  her  smiles  ?    It  can  be  done. 
I  know   'twas  planned,  the  way  she  saw  him 
first; 


74  Our  Dancing  Days 

Her  greeting  to  my  fellow  was  clear  and  bright, 
Decided  sweetness  in  the  moment's  nod; 
Then,  in  the  wing  of  a  half -moment, — homed ! — 
The  quick  glance  rested  and  relaxed,  she  gave 

me 

Her  gay  and  conscious  self  without  reserve 
In  the  smile  that  kept  its  kiss,  the  eyes  that  had 
The  happy  helpless  little  falter  in  them. 
We  met  as  if  in  some  sure  after-life 
With   eyes   that   wondered   backward,   crying 

each: 

What,  is  it  true  we  two  once  lived  apart? 
Or  did  we  dream  it?    Just  to  meet  was  haven, 
Was  repite  in  a  jewel  shut  secure. 
Lady,  what  do  you  ask  of  me?    No  more 
Than  not  to  miss  the  moments  when  they  come  ? 
Moira  O'Hara.    Well,  that's  pretty  enough. 

VI 

December.    In  the  foreign  news  today 
I  read  high  scandal :  Madame  Quelquechose, 
Not  two  months  married,  sueing  for  divorce 
Eegina.    But  there  may  be  snow  in  France. 

A  Sunday  afternoon,  like  spring :  this  year 
The  Christmas  will  be  green :  the  russet  lawns 


Lady  Greensleeves  75 

Unlaced   the   elm-shadows   starred  with    gold 

today 

Of  winter  dandelions.    New  squares  of  city, 
I  sought  a  house  not  there :  and  one  more  house, 
I  turned  upon  the  steps  to  hear  my  name 
Called,  and  to  meet  her  from  the  carriage-way 
Coming,  newly  alighted  from  a  drive, 
My  Lady  Greensleeves  at  her  very  door. 

The  ballad  put  to  touch,  her  hand  in  mine. 
And  the  old  song  new  music.    Hue  and  cry, 
Lost  in  open  Broad  Street,  Mr.  Lee ! 
Ah,  but  I  sought  the  House  of  Happiness, 
And  begged  of  Miss  0  'Kara :  was  it  here  ? 
Alas,  this  was  the  wicked  witch's  house, 
And  who  knocked  here  was  never  seen  again ! 
And  I  made  cheerful  and  contented  vow 
I  wanted  to  be  lost,  to  be  bewitched, 
I  came  to  see  her,  if  she  would  let  me  in. 

But  first,  to  prove  the  witchcraft  was  indeed 
Real,  and  foretold  my  coming,  I  must  see 
Her  garden ;  not  the  late  chrysanthemums, 
Her  colors,  but  the  bold  bare  apple-tree 
Green-stockinged    too    in    sunlight:    'twas    in 

bloom. 
Like  a  stag 's  antlers  tipped  with  roses,  yes. 


76  Our  Dancing  Days 

But  no  such  magic  as  her  breast  by  now 
Bare,  and  the  white  fledge  slipping  to  her  hands, 
No  such  magic  as  her  head  by  now 
Uncovered,  up  to  a  richer  wreath  than  time's. 


vn 

Midnight,  and  long  midnight.    The  New  Year. 

And  all  the  horns  of  all  the  city  drone 

A  monotone  so  myriad  and  immense 

It  seems  more  old  than  man ;  to  hear  is  like 

A  strange  half-pleasant  nightmare,  dreams  of 

death 

And  the  end  of  time ;  when  all  may  yet  be  well 
If  one  can  find  one's  friends,  one's  self,  before 
The  horns  blow  out. 

Terry  O'Hara's  child. 

I  might  have  guessed  it.    I  could  laugh  at  it. 
In  Collegetown,  in  Terry's  Place,  of  old, 
Every  one  of  us,  the  sons  of  song, 
Every  roistering  clinker  of  the  stein, 
At  one  time  or  another  heard  him  swear 
In  oaths  most  interesting,  his  girl  should  have 
A  chance.    He'd  give  the  business  up,  by  God. 
Blow,  horns,  tonight  I  met  him  in  his  house. 


Lady  Greensleeves  77 

The  old  brute  was  mute,   and,   going  before 

ourselves, 
Winked  but  the  once.    Then  when  I  held  her 

furs 

To  sleeve  my  lustrious  lady  in,  and  take 
The  clear  half-smiling  profile,  like  old  coins, 
Across  her  shoulder,  stamped  upon  my  heart, 
That  was  across  her  shoulder  too,  the  wink. 
For  old  sake's  sake.    For  a  new  elbows-up. 
To  notice  in  the  green  and  gloating  lamps 
How  did  the  subtle  insinuating  curves 
Slide,  a  voluptuous  deprecation,  down 
Into  her  flat  round  back,  and  not  to  miss 
What  dimples  and  caresses  in  mid-play 
Adorably  vanished,  and  the  sudden  stroke 
Of  shadow  deep  between  her  shoulderblades 
That  left  no  stain  upon  her.    Blow,  horns,  blow. 

vin 

Saint  Valentine.    No  Valentine  from  me  ? 

My  lady  in  the  wonderful  gold  gown 

That  danced  tonight  with  me?    The  Assembly 

Ball 
Its  Princess.    Even  my  sisters  take  the  vow. 

Alas,  my  love,  you  do  me  wrong 
To  cast  me  off  discourteously 


78  Our  Dancing  Days 

The  green  sleeves  you  have  worn  so  long, 
The  green  sleeves  were  a  gift  from  me. 

But  money  could  not  get  her  those  clear  arms. 
Much  money  not  her  gesture  when  she  took 
At  half -arm's  length  the  chain  and  let  it  fall. 
And  that  was  genius,  how  she  wore  the  rose. 

And  oh,  White-Shoulders,  must  we  part? 
And  richer  in  rich  tiffany, 
Why  have  you  taken  me  my  heart 
And  pinned  the  crimson  at  your  knee  ? 

It's  an  old  wonder:  she's  aristocrat 

By  nature,  as  of  finest  blood  and  breed, 

The  portrait  of  a  lady.    How  she  sprang 

So  perfect,  out  of  such  a  stock.  .  .  Well,  well. 

Cophetua  met  her  on  the  green, 
And  sware  a  right  king's-oath  between, 
By  God  this  beggar  should  be  queen, 
And  who  but  Lady  Greensleeves  ? 

Another  ballad,  now  the  sleeves  are  off. 
How  once  there  was  a  man  that  loved  above 
His  fortune,  and  his  love  deserted  him. 
And  loving  then  below  his — fortune,  what? 


Lady  Greensleeves  79 

IX 

Good  Friday.    Home  from  the  East.    The  old 

home  now. 

And  now  that  Georgia  has  her  boy,  my  name, 
A  Hampton  and  a  Lee,  and  by  as  much 
Virginia,  she  will  never  marry  now, 
Is  blossomed  into  an  Aunt,  I'm  free,  I'm  off. 
It 's  curious  therefore  now  to  take  again 
This  journal.    Curious  too,  it's  not  quite  done. 
Fifth  Avenue  is  by  a  lady  .  .  .  well, 
Distinctly  gayer.    Kegina.    The  return. 
I  saw  her  at  Pagliacci,  play  in  play, 
And  yet  within ;  her  glance  came  quick  to  me ; 
Her  box  was  empty  when  the  curtain  fell. 

Well,  will  it  snow  again?   It's  cold  enough. 
The  valley's  rich  cold  greens  and  violets 
Were  crisply  wrought  and  stayed  in  driving 

glooms 
When  from  my  train  I  looked  and  named  it, 

home. 

Ohio  orchards,  now  at  prime  of  bloom, 
What  chill  and  kindred  echoes  in  the  rain 
Of  that  cold  sky.     And  here,  from  street  to 

street, 


80  Our  Dancing  Days 

Cold  wafts  of  fragrance,  how  the  lilacs  bowed. 
And  billowed,  wind's  work,  burst  to  purple 
foam.  .  . 

Damn   it,   she   looked   like   Greensleeves,    she 

looked  like 
Greensleeves.     'Twas  hellish,   'twas  a  witch's 

dance. 

Ah,  Greensleeves,  shall  we  ever  dance  again, 
Greensleeves  unsleeved,  and  in  the  gold  not 

mine? 

In  gold  not  mine,  her  arms  and  shoulders,  look, 
Are  far  more  precious  fabric,  and  her  breast : 
And  like  a  purple  lilac  love's  own  face 
Struck  in  the  middle  of  her  breast,  struck  deep 
And  vanished,  the  one  shadow  near  her  heart. 
That  was  the  fear  I  might  ask  even  yet : 
Would   she   drop    everything?  .  .  A  fool  and 

cruel. 
A  fool  and  cruel.    One  can't  drop  everything. 

X 

Easter,  what  an  Easter!    Snow,  what  srow! 
And  all  the  greensleeves,  all  the  greensleeved 

trees 
Were  silvered  over  with  a  blow  of  flutes, 


Lady  Greensleeves  81 

Shrieked  over  with  excessive  sweetness,  shot 
With  chills  and  ecstasies  of  white  alarm ; 
Only  the  pines  stood  up ;  but  under  each, 
Itself  a  fountain  of  the  gushing  white, 
A  circle  was  pure  Eden.    And  the  lilacs, 
Bowed  head  to  knee,  white  curve  on  curve  of 

snow, 

How  darkly  in  the  eclipse  the  lilacs  glanced 
And  glimmered,  with  the  swim  of  violet  eyes 
That  could  not  hide  them  even  in  the  veil, 
Of  violet  eyes  self-startled  that  were  gray. 
And  I  am  he  that  cried  to  dream  again. 

Once  in  a  lifetime  is  a  wonder.    Twice  ? 

• 

The  pretty  letters,  oh,  the  pretty  liars 

That  end  with  the  gay  "Greensleeves,"  they 

are  naught. 

That  little  laughing  backward  tilt  of  head, 
Together  with  her  lift  of  arms,  was  like 
Her  very  kiss.    For  perfectly  I  know 
How  she  would   give  her  lips,  and  how  her 

breast. 

It  was  as  if  it  had  been,  long  ago. 
We  almost  spoke  of  how  our  children  slept 
While  we  were  dancing,  virgin  each  of  each.  .  . 


82  Our   Dancing  Days 

Snow  on  the  lilacs,  of  such  stuff  are  we. 
I  had  sent  no  word ;  she  would  not  be  at  home 
On  such  an  Easter  morning;  at  her  doors 
I  said  to  that  old  hypocrite  my  heart, 
None  understands  her  quite  as  well  as  I, 
Wherever  her  love  may  go,  as  go  it  may, 
And  she  will  never  quite  be  what  she  might. 
Snow  on  the  lilacs,  yes.    But  sleeves  are  good 
After  Easter.    Lord,  but  who  said  that? 

XI 

"The  other  things  are  nothing,"  Moira  said. 
"Tell  me  of  her,  the  girl  you  loved.    The  girl 
I'm  like.    The  girl  you  love  again  in  me." 

I  breathed  so  deep  a  wonder  that  I  laughed 
"She's  dead,"  I  said  "and  he  that  loved  her, 

dead. 
There's  no  one  but  your  lover  left  alive." 

"She  must  have  been  most  lovely."    Lightly 

then 
She  caught  her  hands  to  her  cheeks,  her  eyes, 

she  cried: 

"Don't  say  like  me !    What  is  it,  my  long  throat 
With  my  heart  in  it  ?    No,  no,  if  'twas  hers. 
My  tell-tale  eyes  ? ' '    She  turned  away  with  this. 


Lady  Greensleeves  83 

In  all  her  vivid  sweetness  was  a  pang, 
A  plangence ;  that  fire-melting  flash  of  eyes, 
Yes,  and  the  fever  of  beauty  that  so  burned 
On  her  tight  lips,  impeached  her;  and  her  voice. 
''And  snow,  snow  on  my  heart,  is  that  hers 
too?" 

I  came  to  her  at  the  window.    Morning  yet 
Was  flash  on  flash  of  snow  beneath  green  trees; 
And  from  deep  green  the  dulcet  fall  of  white 
Caught  down  and  tricked  our  eyes;  without  a 

wind, 

Large  as  white  roses,  like  the  vanishing 
Of  meteors.    They  that  lived  till  sunset,  how 
They  would  forget  the  morning's  wickedness, 
Would  see  in  her  wet  apple-blossoms  April 
Smiling,  her  penance  done.  The  white  sighs  fell, 
The  ghostly  roses.    "Do  you  love  me?"  I  said. 

She  laughed  a  little.  "I  knew  you  would  come" 

she  said 

' '  This  morning. ' '    Suddenly  sinking  to  the  floor 
She   kneeled   before   me,   tight  hands   at  her 

breast, 

And  eyes  imploring.  "Raleigh,  no!"  she  said. 
"Since  I  must  wrong  you,  thus  I'll  wrong  you 

least. 


84  Our  Dancing  Days 

Poor   Greensleeves.     Lift   her   up.     Kiss   her 
goodbye." 

I  jeered  at  her.     "Because  your  sleeves  are 

green  ? 

She  is  two  white  arms  will  never  let  me  go. 
And  you,  stay  on  your  wicked  knees  till  then ! ' ' 

XII 

Oh,  keep  the  date,  the  habit,  end  the  book 
With  one  more  page.    I  came  away  indeed 
Without  a  touch  of  her.    In  Georgia's  house 
I  found  Virginia  and  herself  struck  cold 
Over  the  letter  which  they  gave  to  me, 
Regina's  letter.    And  I  jeered  at  them. 
I  wrote  across  the  unopened  envelope 
And  sent  to  Moira.    And  I  myself  came  out 
To  the  upland  beeches  and  the  afternoon 
Where  now  the  northern  shadows  were  last 
snow. 

But  white  is  not  my  lady's  favour.    Look, 

The  green  that  gemmed  the  snow  was  thick 

with  faint 

Gold  bells  and  rosy  tapers,  flowers  I  thought 
As  white  as  snow.    But  snow's  another  thing. 


Lady  Greensleeves  85 

Bloodroots,  the  green  hands  held  me  up  their 
pearls 

Warm  as  a  throat  in  cold  white  furs.  "White- 
hearts, 

They  were  like  love's  eyelids  sleep  can  not  un- 
flesh. 

Spring-beauties,  they  were  closed  like  kisses 
death 

Cannot  uncrimson.    But  no  violet  yet. 

Hark,  how  my  heart  went  leaping  sudden  and 

far, 
That  was  the  first  woodthrush.    My  heart  went 

leaping, 

Once  I  mean  I  saw  her  before  she  knew. 
Greensleeves  and  silver  furs,  that  nice  young 

girl. 

Coming  across  to  Georgia's,  the  bold  thing. 
Coming  across  the  green  yet  laced  with  white, 
She  danced  a  whiter  moment  with  herself, 
Spin  of  a  green  skirt,  slide  of  a  white  shoe. 
And  quickly  as  she  checked,  it  was  too  late. 


The  Lady's-Tresses 


The  Lady's-Tresses 


I     HAD  meant  to  wait  till  moonlight  and  re 
turn 

To  put  my  gay  adventure  to  the  proof; 
But  orchids  always  struck  an  hour  for  me, 
And  now  the  hour;  and  these  were  rare  and 

fine, 

Fresh  little  spires  of  April  snow  were  they, 
And  where  the  ferns  were  yellowing  under  the 

wood 

Looked  lilies-of-the-valley  in  autumn's  front. 
So  'twas  not  feigned,  the  excitement  I  called 

back 

To  Emily  waiting  in  the  motor-car : 
' '  They  're  lady  's-tresses ! ' ' 

"I'll  come  too!"  she  cried. 

But  I  was  planning  swiftly.  "No,  it's  wet," 
I  said,  "I'll  bring  them."    Now  I  bent  to  them, 
The  moment's  scent  unlinked  like  an  embrace 


90  Our   Dancing  Days 

Once  and  again  from  me.  The  flowers  them 
selves 

Outlustered  even  the  fond  and  pretty  name ; 

Most  artful,  waxen  white  of  ruffled  bells 

Twined  in  the  plait  of  green,  and  like  her 
braids 

Fragrant  of  maidenhood.    An  exile  far 

From  its  own  April,  a,  virginity 

That  never  hears  the  thrush.    What  truer  sign 

And  symbol  could  there  be  for  tragic  love? 

"Don't  be  all  day!"  cried  Emily  from  the  car. 

I  laughed  with  quick  abandon,  and  it  seemed 
There  was  an  echo  in  every  waxen  throat. 
Slower,  you  little  shrieks.    You  wanton  breath, 
Between  the  lips  of  what  surprise  are  you? 
"White   thing,   what's  in  your   scent?     White 
thing,  what 's  yours  ? 

I  was  all  but  saying  these  pretty  things  when 

now 

I  brought  the  lady's-tresses  to  the  lady. 
And  she  that  tapped  away  the  yawn  kept  still 
Breath-parted  lips,  for  rapture  feigned  and  true 
Upon  my  orchids.     "Oh,"  she  said,  "they're 

dear!" 


The  Lady  *s-Tr  esses  91 

"Hands  in  your  lap!"  I  held  the  flowers  from 

her, 
"Smell  first!"  and  made  her  lean  out  of  the 

car. 

The  white  veil  showered  a  silver  round  her  face, 
Her  eyes  flashed  through  it,  and  to  her  breath 

it  danced, 

And  now  'twas  crisply  imprinted  on  her  mouth. 
I  kissed  her  through  it. 

"George!"  she  gasped,  "you  wretch!" 
She    tugged   the   levers.    "You  shall  run  for 
that!" 

And  run  I  did,  and  climbing  in  I  made 
The  one  excuse,  and  choicely  said,  I  vow, 
The  asking  Emily  would  she  marry  me 
That   made   the    car   so   widely   swerve;    and 

though 

I  had  grown  so  letter-perfect  in  my  passion, 
I  never  should  have  said  it  half  so  well, 
So  sweetly,  lady's  tresses!  but  for  you. 

II 

The  steady  touring-car  so  widely  swerved 
'Twas  like  a  sudden  giddiness  of  wings 
Falling ;  but  then  like  wings  indeed,  we  went 


92  Our  Dancing  Days 

A  glance's  speed,  and  the  wind's  buoyance, 
A  smoke  behind  us  and  the  sun  before, 
All  up  the  greenwoods  and  the  goldenrod. 

Therefore  'twas  not  absurd,  the  thing  she  said 
So  quaintly,  with  so  soft  a  sullenness : 
"Oh,  damn!"  And  in  a  running  moment  more, 
"George  Cartaret!"  she  cried,  "if  you  mean 

that, 
"Wait,  and  be  still,  or  I — I'll  wreck  the  car!" 

And  I  was  silent,  sober,  in  my  heart 

No  shadow  of  remorse,  but  one  delight 

Of  laughter,  till  I  all  but  hugged  myself. 

For  life  is  better  than  the  tales.    I  sat, 

But  in  a  kindlier  sympathy  and  amaze, 

With  gods  and  fates,  and  laughed  at  life.    I 

touched 

Creation,  lord  of  art,  who  proved  by  fact 
Our  high  imagination's  prophecy, 
Not  written  after  the  event,  but  lived 
With  sure  foreknowledge,  crafty  piloting. 
Emily  steered  us,  yes,  but  I  her  hands, 
And  I  more  silken  than  her  silken  foot. 
And  I  had  said  enough,  I  need  not  act 
One  inch  beyond  the  proud  and  confident 
Waiting  her  answer,  sure  to  be  pure  gold, 


The  Lady's-Tresses  93 

Stamped  with  the  coin  of  my  own  fancy,  and 

yet 

Free  will,  her  own.    Who  ever  waited  thus 
His  sure  refusal  from  a  pretty  girl? 

Carriage  or  coach  or  motor-car,  they're  not 

Good  places  for  proposals,  no ;  unless 

One  knows  the  answer,  as  I  knew ;  because 

If  one  should  be  unfortunate  there's  yet 

The  remnant  of  the  journey.    Unless,  once  more, 

It  is  one's  joy,  as  it  was  mine,  to  be 

Unfortunate,  unless  one  loves  as  I 

The  profile  of  rejection  in  the  veil 

Beside  him,  and  the  veil  so  bitten  in. 

Loved  surely,  oh  you  half -averted  cheek, 

Securely,  oh  you  lips  and  eyes  like  flowers 

Recovering  from  the  wind  that  as  winds  will 

Visited  you  too  gaily !    If  I  wished 

At  all,  if  I  had  any  wish  beyond, 

I  wished  the  way  was  longer,  and  the  day. 

The  way,  the  day,  were  fair  enough  themselves 
For  any  man 's  devotion.    And  when  now, 
By  historied  beeches  and  the  bridge  of  sighs 
Over  the  brook,  unto  our  journey's  end, 
The  tents  upon  the  riverside,  we  came, 


94  Our  Dancing  Days 

Where  Nan  the  child  came  dancing  out  to  meet 

us, 

And  Nan  the  mother, — well,  I  stepped  to  earth 
Sighing  content,  and  almost  sighed  regret 
To  take  the  splendid  fiction  up  again. 
But  when  I  turned  to  Emily,  Emily  sat 
With  both  hands  lifting  from  her  face  the  veil, 
One  rose  to  the  clear  falter  of  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  George,"  said  Emily  Saint,  "111  marry 
you. ' ' 

III 

'Twas  Benbow  and  Duquesne  and  I  that  made 
This  great  conspiracy.    Oh,  the  word  was  true. 
Emily  wore  no  ring,  that  craft  was  hers. 
Emily  took  me  driving  for  I  asked 
To  visit  her  that  evening.  'Twas  all  straight. 
Alice  Duquesne  had  brought  the  secret  word 
That  three  days  later  Emily  would  announce 
Not  only  her  betrothal  but  her  day 
Of  marriage,  near  and  strange  as  was  the  man : 
Martin  St.  John.    Saint  added  unto  Saint! 
And  forthwith  we  conspired.    That  very  night, 
The  night  of  Friday,  this  was  Saturday, 
Benbow,  no  better  actor,  chosen  by  lot, 


The  Lady's-Tresses  95 

Proposed,  and  was  rejected,  and  went  off 
To  the  devil,  as  lie  swore.    He  came  to  me. 
They  were  old  friends :  Emily  wept :  he  raged. 
Mine  was  the  second  turn:  and  Benbow  said: 
"But  she  deserves  it,  taking  you  to  drive 
When  she 's  as  good  as  married.    Most  immoral. 
You'll  take  your  heartbreak  quiet  like  a  man. 
Wonder    what's    left    Duquesne    for    Sunday 

night ! 

Be  sure  and  tell  me."    One  thing  only  stays 
In  darkness :  how  the  chapter  of  St.  John 
Keally  read,  I  shall  not  ever  know. 
I  think  indeed  'twas  I  that  closed  the  book. 

Small  boast  in  that.    In  the  innocence  of  my 

heart, 

In  my  unfeigned  appreciation,  yet 
My  hand  was  out  to  Emily  of  the  faint 
The  flushed  half -smiling  fright,  the  blind  wide 

eyes, 

And  desperate  quick  hands  that  at  her  veil 
Strove  to  be  still,  where  in  the  car  she  sat 
With   knees   bent   sharply   and  feet  together 

tight. 
"Yes,  George,  I'll  marry  you."     That's  what 

she  said. 
And  out  she  came,  and  catching  up  my  hand 


96  Our  Dancing  Days 

She  tugged  me  away  to  meet  them  like  the  two 
That  so  came  dancing:  and  "Hello!"  she  sang, 
"Nanny!    Nan!    You  fairies  of  the  wood!" 
Thank  God  that  women  kiss  with  both  their 
hands. 

Thank  God  they  talk.    I  grew  religious,  yes. 
And  there  was  much  to  talk  of  and  to  see : 
That  quaint  and  rustic  household,  tent  by  tent, 
Where  Johnny  Mahan  had  made  his  summer 

nest, 
The  tents  that  were  such  blind  bright  hearts  of 

cloud 

Inviting  sleep,  the  faggots  on  the  hearth 
That  promised  to  our  faces  dreams  by  night, 
The  titmouse  on  the  guy-rope,  all  that  so 
Had  weathered  sun  and  shower,  and  gave  them 

back, 

Mother  and  child,  their  health:  these  we  sur 
veyed 

All  in  a  babble  like  the  brook's  talk,  out 
To  the  river,  and  now  back  to  where  we  stayed 
Safely  together,  safe  yet,  where  the  brook 
Down  upper  ledges  sounded  and  flashed  white 
Above  the  waterfall,  the  waterfall 
Draped  on  the  cliff  below  us.    Hear  it?    Yes. 
George  Cartaret  betrothed  to  Emily  Saint. 


The  Lady*  s-Tr esses  97 

IV 

The  joke  was  on  me,  if  it  was  a  joke. 
Nevertheless,  I  may  say  this  at  once, 
I  could  not  keep  my  moment 's  sharp  suspect 
That  Emily  knew  our  precious  plot,  or  guessed, 
And  turned  the  tables.    No.    The  plot  was  safe. 
Alice  Duquesne  had  never  failed  us  yet. 
And  Emily  knew  just  nothing  of  herself, 
And  of  herself  guessed  all  things,  chiefly  love. 

Oh,  I  was  fond  of  her,  as  we  were  all, 

I  had  my  own  proprietorship  and  pride 

In  her,  no  doubt  of  that;  gay  and  assured, 

A  beauty  known,  an  empty  curly  head, 

And  dimples  at  their  rakish  hide  and  seek, 

Somehow  her  beauty  mattered  not  a  bit 

To  anybody ;  nor  her  coquetry, 

'Twas  so  transparent,  so  unprejudiced; 

Emily  Saint  that  went  on  dancing  feet 

Whither  she  would,  or  whither  she  would  not 

Went,  what  did  it  matter,  so  she  danced? 

But  what  burned  up  suspicion  was  no  guess, 
No  plot,  no  peradventure.    That  new  fire, 
The  clear  faint  vivid  carmine  that  suffused 


98  Our  Dancing  Days 

Her  cheeks  whose  wont  was  pallor  and  smooth 

light, 
Damn  it,  that  rose  was  mine,  that  was  for  me. 

There  was  a  thing  for  courage.    I  to  wed? 
Oh,  sometime,  doubtless,  maybe.     I  found  an 

odd 

Conviction  in  me :  there  were  many  girls, 
Girls  I  had  known,  girls  I  should  never  know, 
That  had  enough  humanity  to  match 
And  mate  my  own.    Put  by  the  question,  then, 
Of  what's  called  character;  for  I  myself 
Had  little  as  yet,  as  this  adventure  proved; 
The  question  was  of  choice,  to  choose  to  love. 
Well  then,  a  thrown  flower  out  of  nowhere. 

Look. 

Sighing  surrender  without  glance,  be  sure 
She  knew  my  eyes  took  airy  rape  of  her. 
But  woman  wear  more  braver  masks  than  men. 
And  it  was  maybe  far  more  true  of  her 
That  I  could  feign  or  fancy,  that  she  made 
A  joy  of  it  all,  a  luxury  of  still  fear, 
Godiva  galloping  straight  and  fast  to  me 
Naked  upon  her  beat  of  heart,  and  yet 
All  but  asleep  with  safety  as  she  came. 


The  Lady's-Tresses  99 

Oh,  but  this  child  and  fairy  in  the  round 
High-girdled   pearl   and   blue   that   from   her 

breast 

Hung  hardly  farther  than  her  knees,  was  she 
Indeed  a  woman?    Arch  of  brows  and  pout 
Of  conscious  lips,  she  held  her  profile  thus ; 
To  the  play  of  her  shoulders,  affectations  light 
And  dainty :  what  a  valentine,  just  saved 
From  sugared  sentiment  by  that  pert  nose, 
By  that  full  chin,  beneath  her  hair :  was  she 
My  lady  and  love?    The  lady's  tresses,  yes: 
Upclustered  and  obedient  wild  hair, 
Most  rich  of  inner  artful  whisks  and  eddies, 
Dull  gold,  and  all  elf-shivers,  little  shrieks 
Of   sweetness,    crowning   her   smooth   temples 

with 
A  play  at  savage.    Love  ?    Did  she  love  me  ? 


We  babbled  with  the  brook,  old  things,  far  off. 
How  Johnny  driving  out  at  six  would  bring 
Alice  Duquesne.     The  wretch.     For  audience, 

yes. 

Martin  St.  John  was  coming  too.    And  that, 
That  was  a  smile,  how  waiting  and  prepared, 
That  dimpled  into  amber  full  beneath 


100  Our  Dancing  Days 

Her  arch  and  innocence  of  brows,  one  hand 
Outspread,  without  a  ring,  upon  her  breast. 

I  did  begin  to  love  her  then  and  there. 
Against  the  upper  brook's  cascades,  the  slope 
Of  lilies  that  so  kept  their  woven  place 
But  fleeting,  beating,  shuddering,  and  looked 
The  sudden  cloud 's  descending  from  the  blue, 
She  crouched  upon  one  foot  with  one  foot  free, 
She  coiled  with  one  hand  up  behind  her  neck. 
You  know  her,  Emily  Saint.    She's  light,  light. 
She 's  slight,  slight.    A  waist  like  Ariel 's  world. 
Yet  that  forgotten  and  eye-snatching  leg 
Bloomed  to  a  sumptuous  fullness,  and  the  breast 
Her  hand  could  not  keep  down.    She's  sweet, 
sweet. 

Forsworn  for  me,  that  settled  me  St.  John. 
But  Alice,  she  would  look  with  no  such  eyes. 
Alice  must  be  outplayed.    Event's  the  thing. 
For  now,  no  prettier  thing  could  be,  the  child 
Was   stripped   and  bathing,   pure    delight   to 

watch, 

And  Nan  that  waded  with  her  was  as  fine, 
Bare  knees  midway  the  pool  that  linked  the 

falls, 
A  hand  to  Nanny :  what  could  warm  one 's  heart 


The  Lady's-Tresses  101 

More,  of  the  rapt  Madonnas?    Like  an  elf 
Was  Nanny,  and  slipped  the  shadow  of  leaves 

from  her, 

Slim  little  back  and  flute-note  arms  and  legs, 
And  spilled  to  a  mist  the  perfect  joy  she  was. 

Emily  kicked  a  slipper  free,  and  whisked 
The  long  blue  stocking  from  a  brilliant  foot. 
But  I  took  quick  command.    Up  to  the  tents, 
Our  hostess  crying  instructions  after  us, 
And  Emily  limping  on  one  foot,  we  ran, 
And  she  into  that  tent,  and  I  in  this. 
Not  in  the  river,  no,  the  waterfall. 
Sport  royal !    I  laughed  unto  myself,  while  now 
I  stretched  me  into  Johnny's  bathing-suit 
Exultant:  Alice  and  all  should  be  outplayed: 
And  out  on  high  air  met  her  from  the  tent. 

And  Emily,  straight  into  my  eyes  she  came 
Bare-figured,  empty-armed,  and  so  let  go 
In  the  little  black-silk  bathing-suit  I  knew 
What  languor  loosed  her  knees,  and  why  her 

paired 
And  pretty  pacing  flagged,  and  how  she  was 

held 

Up  by  my  eyes ;  and  if  that  smile  had  been 
Longer,  only  a  moment  longer,  well, 


102  Our  Dancing  Days 

She  would  have  swooned  and  fallen  face  up  to 

me 
Still  smiling.    But  we  laughed,  but  we  caught 

hands, 
And  down  by  a  ladder  of  roots  and  steps  of 

rock 
"We  climbed  still  laughing  under  the  waterfall. 

VI 
Then  first,  when  stroke  for  stroke  she  followed, 

round 

The  sounding  pool,  I  hated  that  the  two 
Must  bring  their  toilets  out  to  oversee  us, 
Crowding  and  calling  on  the  brinks  above. 
If  I  assumed  the  penalties,  I  took  too 
The  privileges.    Why,  so,  I  climbed  the  rocks 
Into  the  fall  itself,  and  so  leaned  out 
To  catch  her  hand,  the  naiad :  Emily, 
She  came,  she  screamed,  she  was  beaten  to  my 

hands, 
She  clutched  me  and  she  crouched  beside  me, 

full 
In  the  fall  of  water.    Two  in  the  waterfall ! 

Who  knows  that  rapture?    Well  for  him  who 

knows. 
The  silver  ache,  the  flashing  water-weight 


The  Lady' s-Tr esses  103 

That  shocked  and  pounded,  pushed  and  pressed 

and  played 

Heavy  upon  us,  driving  out  of  us 
All  fret  and  fever,  and  leaving  bloom,  clear 

blood 

Singing  from  vein  to  vein  like  rosy  far 
Lightnings  in  long  neutral  twilight.    "Well 
For  him  who  knows  it,  well  for  him  who  dares. 
The  multitudinous  seizing  shattering  clash 
Drowned  every  sense  in  us  but  being  glad ; 
And  the  water's  cold  strong  wring  of  hands  re 
shaped 

To  the  good  bones  our  bodies ;  'twas  a  new 
Modelling  and  creation,  casting  out 
Of  devils;  as  the  clay  the  potter's  hand 
We  took  the  brook.    Two  in  the  waterfall ! 

"Lean  back!"  I  shrieked.    And  backs  against 

the  wall, 

And  on  our  knees  the  drums  of  riot,  the  harps 
Of  clamor,  we  had  room  to  laugh,  we  looked 
Through  sliding  panels  of  clear  hyaline 
To  see  the  sunlit  well  of  golden  cliffs 
Dance  with  a  drunken  clearness,  and  the  two 
That  hung  above  us  how  on  the  sudden  changed 
Into  the  maddest  phantoms,  leap  on  leap. 


104  Our  Dancing  Days 

So  may  they  dance  who  are  shut  out  of  heaven. 
The  first  kiss.    Ah,  but  thrice  expert  of  that 
Cold  sweetness  was  the  wet-faced  nymph  than  I, 
She  that  of  one  so  made  a  three-times-three ! 


Then  she  was  out  and  in  the  pool  again, 
And  following,  after  a  slide  and  glide  into 
Gloom-lighted  underwater  soft  and  still, 
I  turned  and  lay  beside  her,  poised  afloat, 
Face  up  beneath  the  grotto's  open  dome. 
Clouds  blanched  across  the  blue;  remote  and 

rich 

The  beech-tops  waved ;  the  cavern  of  cool  rock 
Jutted  a  ponderous  purple  gloom  on  us, 
And  fountained  its  paired  silver  columns  out 
And  down  to  us,  with  scattering  pearls  that 

dropped 

From  tresses  of  pure  luster ;  falling,  fallen, 
And  yet  to  fall,  forever  now  and  now, 
Down,  and  deep  down,  and  kissing-deep,  my 

veins. 

It  seemed  a  voice  in  dreams,  but  it  was  Nan 
That  made  her  mandate  heard  above  the  falls. 
"Come  out,  you  mad  things!     Dinner!     Half 
an  hour!" 


The  Lady* s-Tr esses  105 

VII 

But  when  I  issued  from  the  tent,  reclothed, 
Remade,  and  let  alone  into  the  high 
And  smiling  contemplation  of  the  gods, 
Once  more  the  human  comedy  returned 
Upon  me,  the  relentless  jocund  fact 
Shocked  home  in  me  as  instant  as  at  first. 
The  maid  was  at  the  kitchen-tent,  and  waved 
A  cheerful  spoon  toward  Emily,  perched  in  view 
Down  by  the  brook:  Miss  Saint  she  dried  her 

hair, 

And  Mrs.  Mahan  and  Nanny  they  was  gone 
Out  to  the  road  to  meet  the  company : 
They'd  ought  to  be  here  now.    Indeed  they'd 

ought. 

What  most  was  in  my  mind  was  what  should  be 
My  answer  to  her  question :  when  did  I 
Begin  to  love  her?    That,  I  was  assured, 
Was  always  the  first  topic  of  the  engaged. 
I  brought  it  with  me,  dropping  to  the  shade, 
And  putting  now  the  slope  of  upper  falls, 
The    dancing    sounding    snowdrift    in    green 

gloom 

That  had  the  sun-flash  only  along  the  top, 
Behind  me,  facing  resolute  where  she  sat, 


106  Our  Dancing  Days 

Emily,  on  the  sudden-ceasing  brink, 
Drying  her  hair.    I  stood  and  looked  at  her 
Before  she  heard  or  saw  me.  When  ?  Why,  now, 
If  first  love  is  as  strange  and  wierd  as  death. 

Rebloomed,  in  new  ungirlded  disarray ; 
The  gray  kimono 's  golden  dragon  twined 
A  gorgeous  agony  about  her,  caught 
Between  her  knees,  and  mixing  with  her  hair ; 
Relaxed,  relapsed,  she  sat,  upon  her  feet, 
And  folded  limb  on  limb  and  knee  to  breast, 
Conjured  and  instant,  well,  she  made  me  think 
Of  what  I  know  not  immemorial  nudes 
By  old  immortal  watersides.    I  saw 
The  glimpses  of  a  new-moon  throat  and  face 
Up  to  the  sky,  a  head  thrown  back  to  shake 
The  rich  smooth  blindfold  smother  free  of  her. 
Or  now  she  bent  full  forward,  face  to  lap, 
To  let  the  shaken  bright  cascade  of  hair 
Flow  over  her  head  and  hang  like  drapery, 
A  pose  without  a  parallel,  I  thought, 
The  dragon  flaming  into  ashen  gold. 

What   drapes  were   these,  what  masks,  what 

gestures,  what 
Disguises  not  the  human  that  I  knew, 


The  Lady's-Tresses  107 

Allurement  fainter  than  the  thick  sweet  fear 
Of  what  we  were  and  were  not,  she  and  I? 
Prone  on  the  brink,  stooped  in  the  sun,  she 

looked 

Deserted,  widowed,  some  enchantress  slipped 
Out  of  Theocritus,  dreadful  and  sweet, 
At  her  enticing,  her  abhorrent  rites; 
Mourning  and  wronged  and  lone,  thus  crouched 

and  draped 

And  run  to  gold,  thus  cowled  in  heavy  hair, 
The  sack  and  smoothly-hooded  eyeless  glow 
Of  dead  inhuman  gold  drawn  over  her.  .  .  . 
My  eyes  grew  hot,  the  heart  sank  out  of  me, 
I  made  one  leap  of  it  all  down  the  rocks. 

VIII 

She  flashed  me  sudden  sweetness  as  she  turned, 
The  saintly-slendered  face  uplift,  the  new 
Moon  in  the  gold;  and  on  the  curving  ledge 
She  made  me  room,  she  leaned  against  me,  half 
Scarfed  with  the  fragrance  and  the  silken  touch 
Of  tresses ;  where  I  smoked,  and  we  were  still. 

Sun  on  the  glowing  trees  and  bold  cliff  brows, 
The  cove's  white  walls  were  mirrored  bright, 

beyond, 
In  the  outlet  to  the  river,  silver  cliffs 


108  Our  Dancing  Days 

Broken  to  dapples  of  rich  sun,  with  carved 
Sun-crusted  juts  of  masonry  antique, 
And  ivied  with  wild  vine.    And  in  the  shadow 
Under  the  arch  beneath  the  fall  were  ferns 
Hung  like  fresh  garlands  from  our  own  wet 

brows, 

I  had  not  noticed  them,  from  our  old  selves. 
But  we  had  passed  the  veil,  the  waterfall. 

Profiles  of  jetting  silver  at  the  brink 
Glittered,  and  left  the  sun ;  silver  and  blue 
It  fell,  and  in  the  cold  of  jewelled  strands 
Hung,  in  a  dropping  shimmer  and  staying  slide, 
The  tall  slim  delicate  presence  in  the  shade 
Whose   feet  were  milkwhite   dancing  on  our 

hearts. 

For  I,  wherever  I  looked,  saw  womanhood. 
And  all  that  fire-crowned  fall  of  shaken  snow 
That  swiftly  fleeting  slipped  to  opener  curves 
And  instantaneous  broideries,  well,  it  seemed 
The  nymph's  hair  dancing  lock  on  lock,  that  fell 
No  farther  than  her  knees,  and  spilled  the  white 
Lilies  upon  her  feet.    'Twas  life  that  danced : 
The  passing  continuity,  the  fall 
Remaining,  like  seen  music,  now  and  now 
Immortal  moments  ours;  and  music  heard, 


The  Lady's-Tresses  109 

I  take  that  music  in  my  blood  again, 
It  echoed  round  from  cliff  to  cliff  till  all 
Was  one  full  cup  of  monotoning  song. 

When  then  at  last  I  broke  our  long  content, 
'Twas  sudden  even  to  me.    I  laughed,  I  said : 
"G-ood  lord,  where  are  our  lady's-tresses,  lost? 
I  laid  them  in  your  lap.    But  perish  flowers, 
Perish  all  flowers  but  the  flowerlike  hair 
Now  in  your  lap."    I  touched  the  silken  flow 
That  now  no  more  than  trembled  its  gold  gleams 
And  flicked  its  pointed  tongues.    "You  know," 

I  said, 

' '  'Twas  inconsiderate  of  you  to  perch 
Here  in  full  sight  of  camp,  and  so  defer 
A  lover's  most  unquestioned  privilege. 
I  wish,  you  know,  to  kiss  you  in  your  hair." 

She  had  a  tightening  little  thrust  of  lips, 
She  had  a  sudden  deep  delicious  cleft 
Of  shadow  vanishing  from  her  smooth  cheek ; 
The  bands  of  rich  hair  narrowing  her  face, 
Spread  out  on  her  white  arms,  fell  back  again 
Dull  to  her  eyes ;  forthwith  she  set  her  hands 
To  braid  the  glory  in.    "My  dear,"  she  said, 
"A  woman's  oldest  privilege  comes  first. 


1  1 0  Our  Dancing  Days 

It's  joy  enough  to  know  it  might  have  been, 
Isn't  it,  George  my  lover?    Oh,  but  tell 
Alan  Duquesne  he  need  not  follow  suit. 
I've  changed  my  mind.    I  will  not  marry  you," 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase 


T  IF  I  were  set  here  in  the  wood,  and 

he 

On  high  Tintagil  yonder,  if  I  had 
Long  Failnaught  bended,  with  a  tough  tight 

string, 

And  with  a  shaft  of  a  right  rounded  nock, 
And  gray-goose  feathers  fastened  with  green 

silk, 

And  the  arrow  head  of  steel,  an  inch  across, 
And  of  a  green-blue  temper,  that  would  draw 
Blood  of  a  weathercock,  if  I  were  set 
My  foot  to  a  ferntuft  and  the  oak  behind, 
And  at  my  right  the  sun,  and  at  my  back 
The  wind,  and  on  the  footpath  hard  beside 
Isolt,  then  would  I  shoot  him  such  a  shot, 
So  strong  and  sweet,  so  smooth  and  so  long- 
drawn, 
The  tower  should  yet  be  murmuring  'Tristram's 

Harp!' 
Long  after  Mark  had  fallen  into  the  sea." 


1  1 4  Our  Dancing  Days 

This  much  if  I  remember  of  the  lost 
Poem,  it's  of  the  other,  of  the  wrong 
Isolt ;  never  of  Gyp ;  'twas  my  own  fault 
That  so  must  tell  my  tale  to  such  a  chance 
Acquaintance,  such  an  understudy,  this 
Nina  Farrell.    The  arrow  should  be  green, 
Green  tipped  with  blue.    The  blue  closed  gen 
tian,  yes ; 

The  flowers  that  never  open  from  the  bud; 
They  were  like  what  tapers  of  the  deep  mid 
night, 

They  were    stripped    and   smooth  like   lamp- 
flames;  jewel-blue, 

An  ecstasy  of  blue,  how  pure  and  cold, 
A  bitter  virgin  blue.    For  these  were  now 
In  this  girl 's  lap,  where  at  the  silent  door 
We  guested,  in  the  gray  benched  vacant  porch, 
With  none  to  hear  but  absence  at  the  pane, 
And  by  the  cold  hearth  memory,  there  midway 
The  dead  deserted  village  by  Pine  Lake. 

Crafty  and  conscious,  yes,  a  jester's  mask, 
A  push  of  lips,  and  under  high-arched  brows 
The  droop  of  eyelids  maybe  overfull, 
As  after  sleep  or  weeping,  for  such  eyes, 
So  narrowed,  such  new-moons  of  mirth  or  mus 
ing; 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase          1 1 5 

Now  with  the  tale  she  yawned,  she  tapped  her 

mouth 

With  a  blue  pointed  gentian,  but  her  eyes 
Glittered  excitement  even  while  she  stretched, 
Bare  elbows  up  and  hands  behind  her  neck; 
And  so  curved  forward,  so  full  blown,  her  body 
Leaped  into  bold  expression,  flashed  on  me 
The  sudden  thick  white  double  throb  of  breast 
Within  the  slipping  veils :  Isolt,  Isolt, 
She  of  the  full  cups  given  without  hands, 
The  cup  of  love  was  one,  and  one  was  death. 

2 

"Oh,  let's  invent,"  she  said,  "new  episodes! 
Couldn't  we  pry  a  window,  force  a  lock? 
And  build  a  fire  on  one  of  these  old  hearths  ? ' ' 

\ 

"A  hatful  of  the  wild  red  raspberries. 
A  pickerel,  I've  a  line,  out  of  the  lake. 
We'll  do  it!"    I  caught  her  hand,  both  hands, 

to  me. 
"It  has  been  done  before,  this  very  house." 

Yielding,  full  weight,  she  let  herself  be  drawn 
Up  to  her  feet,  a  rich  reluctance,  sighing: 
"It's  all  been  done  before."    And  then:  "By 
you?" 


1  1 6  Our  Dancing  Days 

"No,  I  was  fishing,  half  the  night  alone, 

One  night  last  year, ' '  I  said :  "  in  the  upper  lake 

"Where  all  the  dead  pines  are.    "We  11  row  across. 

I  came  at  midnight  through  the  dark,  the  dew, 

And  found  one  window  lighted  and  alive. 

Oh,  I  looked  in.    This  window  and  this  room." 

By  now  we  were  at  the  window,  hands  to  brows. 
"I'd  love"  she  sighed,  "to  be  a  village  ghost. 
Two  lovers?    Tell  me  what  the  girl  was  like." 

" 'Twas  I  that  played  the  ghost,"  I  sighed  in 

turn : 

"Good  lord,  if  they  had  seen  me  at  the  pane ! 
'Twas  pretty  as  a  ballad,  how  the  two 
Sat  in  the  naked  room  on  the  bare  floor, 
And  watched  the  fire,  and  the  fire  danced  and 

danced. 
The  boy's  face  burned.    The  girl  was  back  to 

me." 

"The  girl  burned  more,"  she  breathed  upon  the 

pane. 

"We'll  blind  the  window  with  a  petticoat. 
And  toast  the  last  marshmallows.    "Well,  your 

boat." 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase          1 1  7 

She  pinned  her  hat  across  my  coat,  and  these 
We  left  for  notice  that  the  house  was  taken, 
But  gathered  up  her  flowers ;  and  out  we  came 
To  the  old  town  well,  the  chain  and  windlass  yet 
Unbroken,  where  we  drank,  and  to  the  stile, 
Bare  steps  that  nothing  crossed  and  nowhere 

led, 

Where  now  atop  we  lingered,  looking  back 
About  the  village,  market-place  of  ghosts, 
Gray  roofs  and  russet  gables  in  the  sun 
Midway  the  unaging  mountain-valley,  set 
In  old  idyllic  meadows,  ever  green 
And  ever  narrower  to  the  encroaching  wood ; 
And  so  through  goldenrod  and  gentian  crossed 
To  the  aldered  lakeshore,  where  I  found  and 

launched 

The  secret  boat ;  and  all  the  while  we  built 
A  ballad,  how  indeed  it  might  be  done, 
How  two  might  live  a  season  out  of  time, 
By  shifts  and  makeshifts,  modern  stratagems, 
Old  woodcraft,  in  the  house  of  the  benched 

porch. 

''But  we  must  have  a  happy  ending,  not 
Like  theirs,"  I  said,  "that  played  too  much  the 
ghost, 


1  1 8  Our   Dancing  Days 

The  two  last  year."    With  which  I  picked  her 

up 

Suddenly,  and  so  carried  ankle-deep, 
For  there  was  no  clear  landing,  to  the  boat. 
And  she  rode  gay,  an  arm  about  my  neck, 
Kicking  a  white  foot  to  the  tune  she  hummed. 
That  was  the  "Whir,  let  fly!"  the  falconer's 

song. 
"They  died  of  it,"  I  finished  on  the  oars. 


Play  too  persistent,  for  a  moment  yet 
The  oars  were  heavy,  all  the  air  was  thick 
With  fragrance  of  red-russet :  wierd  enough. 
The  lake  was   ever  wierd:   whose  mountains 

round, 

Deep-domed,  autumnal,  velvet-forested, 
And  their  twice-limpid  mirror,  wore  a  mask 
Of  strangeness,  where  all  up  the  clear  canal, 
Rowing  as  if  by  gaunt  dimantled  piers, 
Between  those  bones  and  horns  of  wood  as  if 
Through  courts  of  roofless  columns,  we  came  in : 
Hundreds  of  gray  pine-hulks,  to  right,  to  left, 
They  caught  the  long  last  sunlight,  purpled 

keen 
Against  the  darkling  deeps  of  water  and  wood. 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase          1 1 9 

"But  that's  a  happy  ending,"  said  this  girl. 

"No  place  for  swimming  free."    I  turned  the 

bow 

Toward  sunset;  now  she  burned,  as  of  herself, 
Rich  on  the  ruin ;  I  crossed  the  oars,  I  told 
The  story  of  what  happened  here  last  year, 
The  story  of  the  two  I  saw  by  night, 
The  boy  and  the  girl,  that  next  had  disappeared. 
"I  did  not  know  them:  yet  it's  strange,"  I  said, 
"Even  when  the  hue  and  cry  ran  round  the 

lakes, 

I  did  not  think  of  them :  not  till  I  heard 
How  here  on  Pine  their  oars  were  found  afloat, 
And  their  boat  stranded.    In  its  own  calm  time 
The  lake  that  tells  no  tales  gave  up  its  dead, 
The  boy  a  sunset  earlier  than  the  girl." 

She    took    the    gentians    from    her    lap,    and 

strewed 

Wide  on  the  water :  and  with  her  push  of  lips, 
"The   widowed  blue,"  she   said,   "the  tragic 

buds, 

Fit  flowers  for  them.  How  do  you  know  of  them 
That  they  were  lovers  and  they  meant  to  die?" 


120  Our   Dancing  Days 

"Lovers,"  I  scoffed,  "that  is  indeed  a  name 
We  give  a  many  fools.    They  played  they  were. 
It  did  not  need  a  ghost  to  tell  me  that 
When  I  was   at  their  window.     And  in  her 

breast 

There  was  a  ring,  a  diamond  jet  alive 
In  her  dead  breast.     That  was  his  mother's 

ring. ' ' 

"Then  who's  to  judge  them?"    Sunset-flushed 
she  glanced. 

And  "Oh,"  I  ended,  "he  was  all  forsworn. 
The  girl  he  was  to  marry  came  that  day, 
Or  was  to  come,  the  day  they  disappeared. 
Another  girl  and  ring.    It's  all  of  small 
Romance,  except  for  one  thing,  maybe,  this: 
Was  it  he  or  she  that  overturned  the  boat?" 

4 

It  is  not  in  my  mind  that  after  this 
I  spoke  a  word.    She  did  the  speaking  now. 
And  I  quite  other  and  quite  breathless  things. 
She  reached  both  hands:  "The  oars,"  she  said, 

"I'm  cold." 

And  we  rowed  the  skiff  together,  face  to  face, 
My  hands  upon  her  hands  upon  the  oars, 
Drawing  her  arms  to  me,  or  following  them 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase          121 

Home  to  her  breast:  quaint  progress,  eddies 

wide. 
"Do  all  men  wear  their  mothers'  rings?"  she 

said, 

Staying  the  stroke :  well  was  it  that  I  kept 
The  oars  out  balanced :  "May  I  look  at  yours?" 
She  took  it  from  my  hand,  she  mused  upon  it. 
"Initials,  and  the  date.    They  must  be  dead. 
And  they  were  lovers  long  ago."    With  which 
She  leaned  back,  smiling  strangely,  hand  to  her 

breast, 

And  fingers  now  outspread.    The  ring  was  gone. 
"Jimmy  Usher  and  Nina  Farrell,"  she  said 
"We'll  play  it  out,  why  not?  the  ballad-stuff. 
What  would  happen  if  I  upset  the  boat? 
What  would  people  say  when  we  were  found?" 

I  grasped  the  truth  so  slowly,  even  now ! 

"Funny  you  didn't  guess.    I'm  in  that  too, 
Your  poem.     Only,   between  the  lines.     The 

other." 

She  panted  sharply,  suddenly  stood  up 
Reeling,  and  cried:  "You're  shipped  with  that 

one,  that  one, 

Jilted  Isolt :  look  at  her :  in  her  hands, ' ' 
She  held  them  wide,  "the  sunset  red  as  flowers : 


122  Our   Dancing   Days 

Here's  innocence  for  you,  here's  touch-me-not," 
She  touched  her  eyes,  her  lips,  and  now  her 

breast, 
"Here's  virgin-bower,"  and  now  caught  up  her 

skirts, 
"Here's    lady's-slipper    for   you,    and   lady's- 

smock, 
Oh,  and  your  love-lies-bleeding.  .  ."    Then  she 

stood 

Still,  and  the  circles  ran,  stood  still,  and  saying 
"When  did  the  fire  leave  the  lake?"  she  sank 
Quietly  down  in  the  boat.    The  boat  lay  quiet. 
Then  last  "And  here's  closed  gentian,  I,"  she 

said. 

II 

1 

' '  The  two  notes  and  the  rechase  on  the  horn, 
The  old  hunt  's-up  you  found  for  us  or  made, 
Man,  are  you  deaf  to  that?  The  death  of  the 

stag. 

The  voice  of  your  own  gun  on  your  own  lake. 
If  Ida  and  I  can 't  tempt  you,  here  'a  what  shall. 
Listen,  it  happened  only  yesterday." 

Ida,  that  was  of  course  his  wife.    Dick's  wife. 
This  was  Dick  Farquhar  writing  from  the  lake. 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase          123 

"Yesterday  early.    I  slipped  into  West  Lake, 
And  just  within  the  alder-gates  surprised 
Wild  ducks,  a  flock  of  four.     They  flew  long 

range, 
But  with  the  good  left  barrel  I  knocked  one 

down. 

Why,  then,  I  spied  another,  out  from  shore, 
That  did  not  fly.    No  mallard.    A  deer's  head." 

I'm  done  with  it,  the  hunting  of  the  deer. 

"I  paddled,  man,  I  paddled  like  a  fiend. 

Remembered  in  an  agony  how  the  gun 

Was  charged  with  duck-shot,  stopped  and  with 

mad  hands 
Slipped  buck-shot  into  the  breech.    It  took  an 

age, 
And    yet    the    magic    driftwood    there    that 

trailed 

The  ripple  was  no  more  than  half  across. 
I  stood,   the  trick  you  taught  me,  lunge  on 

lunge. 

I  threw  the  green  canoe  with  every  stroke 
Out  of  the  water.    Last,  I  snatched  the  gun, 
And  sent  the  left  choke-barrel  —  it  holds  its 

charge 


124  Our  Dancing  Days 

Far  better   than   the   smooth-bore  right,  you 

know,  — 

Into  the  swimming  head.    The  gray  beast  lay 
Out  on  the  water  kicking :  and  I  slid 
Alongside,  clutched  a  great  warm  velvet  ear, 
Cut  through  the  long  soft  furry  throat,  and 

drew 

The  hind-legs  over  the  bow  to  let  him  hang 
And  bleed  in  the  lake.    A  buck  of  three  years 

old." 


He  blows  the  very  devil  of  a  horn 

About  it.    Dick  the  married  man.    I'll  write. 


"Go  to,  shall  we  not  have  right  English  fare 
Here  in  the  greenwood,  pasty  of  venison 
"With  ale  of  which  I  have  good  bottled  store?" 

I  'm  done  with  it,  but  not  by  sentiment. 

'Twas  boy,  I've  no  remorse  of  that.    And  none 

Of  what  he  does  not  mention,  laws  we  broke 

Jack-lighting  for  the  deer.    But  never  dogs. 

Law  or  no  law,  we  never  played  unfair. 

The  joy  of  the  light's  the  night  and  the  canoe, 

When  you  slip  in  to  a  shore  like  other  worlds, 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase          125 

And  fiery  eyes  look  at  you,  fiery  eyes, 

And  the  stag  wheels  and  whistles,  and  you 

shoot. 

That  was  a  corking  shot  on  Otter  Lake. 
And  once  on  Sacondoga.  .  .  No,  I'm  done. 

2 

But  we  were  thinking  of  another  marriage, 
Not  Dick 's,  when  Dick  and  I  went  out  by  night 
The  last  time,  on  the  night  of  Gyp 's  goodbye. 
For  we  were  fresh  from  it,  the  other  marriage. 

Far  down  the  lake,  the  paddles  dipped  in  stars, 
By  Dick's  one  speech  within  the  hour,  I  knew 
We  thought  of  it,  Bee's  wedding,  both  of  us: 
I  with  the  stale  contempt  of  all  success 
They  know  who  fail:   and  Dick  as  much,  I 

thought, 

But  Dick,  I  thought  and  think,  saw  only  there, 
In  that  bright  image  of  our  loss,  the  bride, 
And  I  the  bridesmaid.    Two  bold  hunters,  yes. 

"Damn  you,  Jimmy,"  was  what  he  said,  "I 

keep 

Seeing  you  two  parading,  Gyp  and  you. 
You  spoil  a  man's  last  privilege,  cursing  fate." 


126  Our   Dancing  Days 

I  did  not  answer.    I  kept  seeing  too. 
My  rice  was  gone  before  the  bride ;  'twas  spent 
Between    the    bridesmaid's    limpid    shoulder- 
blades  ; 

She  turned  the  trick  upon  me  at  last,  and  I, 
I  caught  her  fingers  in  my  collar,  tight 
Between    shrugged    shoulders    and    a    back- 
dropped  head, 

And  led  her  captive  round  the  dancing  rooms. 
What,  was  someone  married?    Yes,  I  saw 
The  white-hung  chapel  green  with  maidenhair 
And  smilax,  sounding  to  the  Lohengrin, 
I  saw  the  flower-children  wavering  come, 
The  prettiest  screwing  Betty's  mouth  at  me, 
With  ferns  and  lilies-of-the-valley ;  and  then 
The  bridesmaid's  smile,  the  tragic  fairy,  Gyp. 

Brace  up.    That  way  lies  madness.    Try  Dick's 

way. 
And   then,   the   bride.     Within   her   veil   she 

looked, 

The  white  cloud  under  the  orange-blossoms,  like 
Undine  within  her  fount ;  the  veil  like  death 
So  paled  her  rich  bold  profile,  and  the  rich 
Line  of  her  mouth ;  looked  how  apart,  afar, 
Some  famous  beauty  out  of  old  romance. 
I  heard  no  word  between,  I  watched  her  turn 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase          127 

Back  up  the  aisle,  with  that  keen  laughing  boy 
Tony  her  husband;  now  she  went  unveiled; 
Eelaxed,  loose-limbed,  full  motion,  after  tears, 
Alcestis  up  from  death,  or  from  the  fire 
Guinevere.     Oh,  Miss  Bridesmaid.     We  come 
next. 

"Light  up,"  said  Dick.    "We'll  try  the  north 
shore  first." 


Well,  I  was  sick  of  it.    In  all  the  stars 
That  sparkled  on  the  midnight  lake,  was  one 
Where  lust  went  hunting?     That  was  earlier, 

stars, 
Stars  and  the  wakes  of  stars,  though  now  the 

wind 

Set  all  the  black  shores  lapping  long  and  loud. 
And  now,  the  jacklight  masted  in  the  bow, 
Dick  dipped  a  silent  paddle,  and  in  we  crept, 
And  all  the  lazy-heaving  lily-pads 
Crept  on  us,  taking  light  and  wicked  light, 
Where  rustling  loud   as   thunder  we  slipped 

through ; 

A  wicked  light,  indecent  to  expose 
What  tossing  alders  waved  their  glimmering 

blooms, 


128  Our  Dancing  Days 

And  tossed  them  dark  and  darker  into  night. 
A  wicked  light,  as  Gyp  became  to  me. 

No  more  of  that.    'Twas  done.    That  was  today. 
This  was  the  gun  across  my  knees,  tonight. 
Leaf -wavering  was  in  her  every  move, 
Light  languor  poised  and  tense.    No  more,  no 

more. 

How  could  she  do  it?    Oh,  I  do  not  mean 
Refuse  me,  that 's  all  right :  I  mean  refuse 
With  such  a  plot  and  play  of  cruelty, 
To  make  me  ask  and  end  it.    Why?    To  smile 
That    crimson    close-lipped   brilliant    smile    of 

hers? 

She  smiled,  there  was  a  spot  of  carmine-pure 
In  either  cheek ;  she  smiled,  her  vivid  lips 
A  little  tight  upon  the  glittering  teeth : 
"Jimmy,"  this  kept  her  smiling,  "Jimmy  dear, 
It's  you  that  I  can't  marry,  you  yourself." 

At  least  I  pulled  myself  together  then. 
I  had  heart  enough  to  bless  her  anyhow. 
But  if  her  no  was  unexpected,  lord, 
What  shall  I  call  the  storm  that  fell  on  me? 
When  she  came  flying  and  caught  me  at  the 
door, 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase          129 

Clasped  me,  and  hung  upon  me,  and  took  my 

breath 
With  such  wild  weeping  fury  of  kiss  on  kiss.  .  . 

Oh,  hell.    And  nothing  in  all  night  to  kill. 
Is  it  my  fault  that  women  make  of  me 
Their  fool  and  eunuch  ?    Sure,  it  must  be  mine. 
Correct  it  then.    Amend  it.    By  the  gods, 
I  Ve  held  two  women  in  my  arms  at  least, 
Gyp  that  would  not  marry  me  for  all 
Her  kisses,  and  another,  well,  that  would 
For  all  her  lack  of  kisses,  Nina  Farrell. 

' '  Cut  it ! "  said  Dick  behind  me.    I  had  laughed. 

4 

I  laughed  again,  but  this  time  not  aloud. 
For  though  Gyp  put  confusion  thus  in  all 
I  had  thought  sure,  they  still  remained,  still 

sure, 

However  useless  now :  nothing  could  be 
More  sure  to  my  instinctive  inmost  sense 
Than  this,  that  Nina  Farrell  was  there  for  me, 
A  second  time,  on  Auskerada,  not 
For  Dick  who  now  pursued  her.    Much  I  cared. 

And  much  for  now  this  hunting  of  the  deer. 
Moths  flashed  across  the  flare;  and  mists  that 
walked, 


1  30  Our  Dancing  Days 

Invisible  beneath  the  stars,  the  lake, 

Took  sudden  being,  were  snow  that  filled  our 

eyes; 

And  once  there  came  a  little  pang  of  touch, 
Another,  and  another,  like  cold  tears, 
Upon  my  hands ;  so  for  a  moment  fell 
Blind  rain,  and  blowing  from  half -blotted  stars 
Drummed  with  a  sound  unknown  and  quaint 

upon 

The  lily-pads  about  us.    With  the  chill 
I  shook  the  mists  and  my  own  mists  from  me ; 
And  praying  the  deer  would  shun  the  valley, 

keep 

Far  up  the  peaks  and  safe  from  me,  I  turned 
To  look  what  dusky  undulance  the  peaks 
"Were  hung   along   the  night,   and  so   caught 

breath 

To  see  the  red  star  burn,  a  flaming  eye, 
Far  on  the  highest  shadow :  a  forest  fire. 
Of  course,  we  saw  it  from  Gyp's  window,  a 

faint 

Blowing  of  threaded  smoke,  blue  on  the  blue. 
But  now  it  was  an  eye  of  fire,  and  watched. 

And  with  the  sudden  anger  of  that  sense, 
As  if  'twas  Gyp 's  own  tyranny  even  now 
That  watched,  I  sent  my  heart  to  Nina  Farrell ; 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase  1  3 1 

Remembering  how  the  ring  upon  my  hand 
Slipped  down  her  breast,  remembering  what  her 

eyes.  .  . 

Oh,  hell.    As  I  remarked  before.    Her  eyes? 
'Twas  she  I  could  not  marry,  she  herself ! 

Gyp,  did  I  not  forgive  you  then  and  there  ? 
Much  more :  for  I  had  nothing  to  forgive : 
I  sympathized.    Farewell  Gyp  Craven  too. 
And  farewell  youth,  'twas  time  to  be  a  man. 
And  oh  for  this  last  child  's-play,  'twas  no  harm, 
No  danger,  I'm  no  shot  that  missed  the  doe.  .  . 

It  seemed  the  night  made  sudden  answer :  owls, 
The  horned  owls,  and  the  hoot  owls,  how  they 

called, 

Inhuman  manlike  voices,  bold,  obscure, 
Confusing  all  the  dark  a  moment  loud 
With    ancient    prophecy,    with    the    unknown 

word 

Uttered,  of  life  and  death.    The  silence  fell 
As  startling.    For  I  knew  the  deer  was  there, 
We  had  crept  downshore ;  the  wind  was  fallen ; 

and  now 

This  little  creek  was  empty  to  the  light, 
Alders  and  mirrored  alders :  but  I  knew. 
How  is  it  one 's  so  sure  ?  It  has  been  so 


1  32  Our  Dancing  Days 

Always  in  all  my  hunts.    Or  all  but  one. 
Why,  no :  that  was  no  afternoon  array : 
From  purfled  hair  to  jewelled  slippertip 
Gyp  was  in  gold  for  wooing.    That  time  too. 
Although  I  missed  my  shot,  I  was  not  wrong. 
And  the  deer  was  here,  was  in  the  hollow  glow 
Of  the  alders  somewhere,  gazing  his  eyes  full 
Of  flame ;  though  from  the  alders,  as  we  touched 
With  throb  on  throb  of  dimly  thundering  wings 
Bird  after  bird  took  flight,  and  wild  with  wak 
ing 
Piped,  and  I  named  them,  —  blackbirds  of  the 

marge, 

They  that  from  out  the  leaf  along  the  wave 
Hover,  and  ankle-deep  on  lily-pads 
A  dancing  moment  tread ;  like  nightmare  now 
They  darkled  over  the  blooms  into  the  gloom. 
Plain  warning,  but  the  pretty  fool  stood  still. 
The  pretty  fool  stood  still  and  held  her  close 
And    filled    his    eyes    with    kisses    and    thick 
kisses.  .  . 

Right  oh.    A  hiss  from  Dick.    I've  got  'm,  boy. 
Usher  ran  well,  but  I-Love  killed  the  deer. 
Two  dusky  little  lusters,  but  they  stirred 
Together.    Brimming  opals.    Witch's  eyes. 
And  in  an  ecstasy  upon  the  trigger.  .  . 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase  1  33 


Someone  singing.    Very  carefully 
I  lowered  the  silent  gun,  and  drew  the  charge, 
Both  cartridges,  and  splashed  away,  before 
I  crumpled  up.    I  could  have  laughed  at  it, 
Singing  "What  shall  he  have  that  killed  the 

deer?" 

No,  there  were  now  two  voices;  one  was  Dick's, 
I  could  have  laughed  at  it,  a  stream  of  oaths 
Over  a  plunging  paddle;  and  one,  a  girl's, 
A  scream  of  laughter.    Standing  in  her  boat. 
Holding  to  alders  in  a  blaze  of  light. 
A  mask  of  mad  caprice,  I  could  have  laughed, 
A  gargoyle  now,  and  languished  sweetness  now, 
With  eyes  like  candles  waved  across  my  face. 
'Twas  only  Nina  Farrell,  and  long  ago. 

in 
i 

My  telegram  to  Tony  brought  them  both, 
Bee  and  himself,  the  dears,  to  meet  my  train. 
Bee  met  me  with  a  kiss.     'Twas  this,  no  doubt, 
When  now  in  a  babble  of  talk  of  new  and  old 
Between  the  lamps  in  pines  and  on  the  beach 
The  rainy  clash  and  glimmer  of  the  surf 


1  34  Our  Dancing  Days 

We  came  around  the  bay,  decided  me 
On  instant  celebration.    Half-way  round, 
The  summer  crew  was  dancing  out-of-doors, 
And  I  snatched  Bee  into  it.    Oh,  all  sorts, 
A  vulgar  rout;  but  how  the  image  stays! 
The  ring  of  paper  lanterns  in  the  ring 
Of  splendid  blowing  birches,  and  the  floor 
Wind-touched,  a  mirror  of  those  golden  moons ; 
Where  all  the  dim  crisp  dancers  twirled  and 

slid 

In  an  enamored  circle,  ghostly  and  sweet 
In  changing  lights,  pale  gush  on  gush  of  skirts 
And  falling  flowers  of  insteps  beat  on  beat; 
And  through  the  circling  glimpses  now  and 

then 

The  faces  brightening,  when  a  lantern  caught 
Wider  and  fatal  flame :  that  was  a  charm. 
All  to  what  naked  violins.    And  then 
A  call  came,  "Circle  all!"  and  hands  all  round 
We  wound  and  counted,  "Dance  with  Number 

Nine!" 

/ 
Gyp 's  color,  curved  smooth  gold,  what  lady  was 

this 

In  yellow,  lifting  cold  as  twilight  snow 
Her  arms  to  me  ?  The  lady  softly  said : 
"  It 's  Jimmy  Usher. ' '  It  was  Nina  Farrell. 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase  1 35 

And  safe  by  six  years  now  I  danced,  why  not  ? 
With  Nina  Farrell,  and  with  so  quiet  a  heart 
I  did  not  even  pity  her,  or  forgive, 
But  in  some  simple  fashion  understood. 
I  had  heard  a  word  or  two.    I  looked  for  Dick. 
Oh,  rouged,  no  doubt;  but  under  the  gold  hat, 
The  red-gold  hair,  that  jester's  mask  of  hers 
At  least  was  nude  of  coquetry;  so  too 
She  gave  herself  without  reserve  to  that 
Cheerful  abandon,  out  of  which  I  made 
Our  dance  into  a  rich  extravagance, 
Her  arm  outstretched  on  mine,  gaily  aloft, 
Yes,  and  her  bare  breast  given  so  its  depth 
"Was  measured  in  the  double  touch,  arm-full. 
But  it  is  only  to  the  poisoner 
Such  cups  are  poison.    Not  my  cup  of  death. 

Twas  hands  again;  a  lantern  flamed,  burned 

out, 

Above  us ;  brilliant  in  the  flame  was  she, 
Half  in  the  jealous  color  gilded,  like 
A  nymph  in  a  gold  leaf ;  no  mere  nymph 's  eyes. 
"Didn't  you  know?"  she  said:  "I've  married 

Dick. 

Ida  divorced  him  and  I  married  him. 
But  Jimmy,  don't  come  see  us,  never,  never!" 


1  36  Our  Dancing  Days 

2 

"Fancy  Dick  Farquhar!"    This  with  much  dis 
dain 

Was  Bee 's  one  comment.    Not  indeed  on  Dick 
His  marriages,  for  now,  the  second  night, 
I  explained  her  this  was  none,  but  none  at  all, 
And  "All  your  fault!"  laughed  Tony  kissing 

her. 

But  she  that  had  been  singing  to  my  playing 
The  old  way  wonderful,  with  in  her  arms 
The  baby  lying  contented,  sang  no  more, 
Opposed  no  more  my  running  off  from  it, 
Even  with  Betty  coming,  rather  talked 
Of  Betty :  ' '  Fancy  Betty ! ' '    And  I  did  run, 
I  camped  upon  the  North  Peninsula, 
And  'twas  as  many  days,  I  fancied  though, 
Before  I  saw  this  Betty  as  she  had  years. 

With  Tony  gone  to  meet  at  least  the  letter, 
So  I  had  fished,  that  afternoon,  alone. 
A  mile  straight  out,  midway  the  azure  calm, 
Floated  a  cork.    I  anchored  by  the  cork, 
And  one  for  each  year  caught  my  eighteen 

perch. 

Ingots  of  lifted  treasure,  shining  massed 
And  heavy  like  pure  metal.  Lazy  sport. 
Silver  and  lemon-yellow,  silver  and  green, 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase  137 

They  flashed  from  deep  green  water  under  me 
Into  the  sunlight ;  once  or  twice  indeed 
My  hooks  were  double-lustered ;  now  and  then 
The  deepening  cluster  at  the  boatside  plunged 
And  sent  a  running  circle ;  and  for  talk 
There  was  the  click  and  buzzing  of  the  reel. 

Why  should  I  fish  in  other  waters,  I? 

Wonderful  waters,  but  this  naked  north, 

The  burned  pine-barrens  and  the  leagues  of 

sand 

Hung  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  pure  light 
And  nights  of  great  auroras,  was  not  mine ; 
Nor  yet  did  any  brilliant  crude  today 
Connect  with  my  deep  yesterdays :  enough 
Of  new  adventure !    Well,  I  rowed  back  straight 
Into  it,  I  fairly  bumped  into  the  launch 
From  which  Dick  hailed  me ;  they  were  perched 

at  feast 

Under  the  awning,  over  the  water-play, 
Where  they  were  moored  midway  the  blossomed 

heads, 
The  laughters  and  the  splashes,  off  the  beach. 

At  least  they  should  not  know  I  ran  from  them. 
And  they  had  bottles  round  the  dish,  and  I 
Was  thirsty.    Oh,  she  made  a  little  scene, 
She  loved  to  make  a  little  scene.    She  sprang 


1  38  Our  Dancing  Days 

Up  to  her  feet  to  greet  me,  and  with  the  move 
Knocked  from  the  rail  the  silver  chafing-dish 
Into  the  lake.    The  lamp  fell  at  her  feet. 
I  leaped,  I  beat  the  flame  from  her,  and  she, 
She  laughed,  she  ran,  she  shut  the  cabin-door 
Behind  her,  and  we  heard  her  laughing  still. 
"Jimmy,"  said  Dick,  "shell  eat  out  of  your 

hand. 
Pluck   up    a   heart    and   take   her   for   God's 

sake.  .  ." 

3 

"The  round  gray  towers  looked  over  the  cold 

sea, 

And  the  empty  hall  looked  over :  for  two  doors 
Were  open,  and  the  swallows  through  the  doors, 
They  nested  in  the  pillars  of  the  hall, 
Came  in  and  out.    But  the  third  door  was  shut. 
And    there    we    sheltered    till    the    day    the 

swallows 

Quarrelling  dropped  afloat  the  thread  of  fire, 
Red-gold,  the  hair,  and  someone  said  'Isolt!' 
And  someone  strode  and  opened  the  third  door, 
Before  it  touched  the  flags,  and  we  looked  out, 
The  three  gray  faces  and  the  three  gray  helms 
And  the  gray  swords  and  hearts  of  three  old 

men, 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase  1  39 

Remembering,  I  say  of  three  old  men, 
Sentraile,  and  Governale,  and  Berangere. 
That     was     the     door    that     looked     toward 
Lyonesse." 

"What's  that?"  said  Betty  when  I  stopped. 
"Isoltl" 

We  had  been  playing,   none   else  on  all  the 

course, 

For  this  was  blue  September,  over  the  lake, 
The  sweep  of  emerald  shallows  round  the  shore 
And  that  pure  cobalt  of  the  middle  lake 
How  flocked  and  peopled  with  white  swans, 

with  white 

Enchantments,  of  the  whitecaps,  and  across 
Cloud-shadows  lying  of  deep  dense  violet. 
The  north  was  mine  today.     And  mine  long 

since 
The  two  great  splendid  plumes  of  smoke  that 

stood, 

Their  sunlit  tops  like  roses,  deeply  infurled, 
Up  from  the  slender  naked  uplands,  there 
So  near  and  far  across,  of  forest  fires. 

This  was  from  somewhere  high,  the  seventh  tee. 
And  Betty's  drive  half -circled  on  the  air 


1 40  Our  Dancing  Days 

Free  as  the  silver  killdeers,  and  my  own 
As  wild  and  wide;  and  hunting  then  the  balls 
We  found  white  disks,  the  little  ivory  placques 
Of  meadow  mushrooms,  " Agarics!"  she  cried, 
Dappling  the  green  like  flowers,  and  here  and 

there 

Yet  beaded  with  the  morning's  dew,  and  each 
The  dark-pink  hollow  of  a  shell  beneath. 
"Hands  off!"  she  waved.  "You'll  break  them. 

Oh,  but  smell!" 
I  smelled  her  fingers.   "Jimmy,   think!"   she 

crooned, 

"A  dish  of  mushrooms  underneath  the  lamp, 
A  little  ale,  a  lot  of  talk,  and  us ! " 

No  doubt  by  Bee's  contrive,  Betty  alone 
Had  met  me ;  we  should  even  dine  alone ; 
The  beach  was  full  of  farewells  anyhow. 
But  I  protest  that  I  did  not  make  love 
To  Betty;  not  for  weeks  yet;  more  made  love 
Through  her  to  Gyp,  and  back  through  Gyp  to 

her. 
The    black-silk    rippled    head    that    rich    and 

strange 

Glanced  in  the  sun,  I  thought  'twould  be  red- 
gold 
With  every  glance ;  the  slide  of  those  dark  eyes 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase  1 4 1 

With  what  a  little  touch  of  coolness,  what 
A  little  breath  of  strangeness,  took  me  in, 
How  lighted  with  a  special  moonlight  now ! 
So  now  ahove  the  mushrooms  I  recalled 
The  door  toward  Lyonesse.    ' '  But  look, ' '  I  said : 
"Straight  toward  the  flag:  aren't  they  mush 
rooms  too?" 

4 
Two  great  white  mushrooms  bright  as  lamps, 

they  looked 

The  finest  of  our  finding,  but  at  once 
She  caught  me  back  from  even  touching  them. 
"Verna,  virosa?    All  alike,"  she  said. 
''An  amanita.    Poison.    Why,  of  course, 
Nina  Farrell  must  have  found  them  here ! 
That 's  the  destroying  angel.    The  death  cup. ' ' 

Others  were  on  the  slope,  but  these  alone 
Mature ;  the  rest  were  buttons  on  thick  stems, 
Like  bulbs,  like  bells,  old  porcelain,  priceless 

ware, 

Satsuma,  caricaturing  gross  and  quaint 
The  double  orbs  of  girdled  womanhood ; 
But  these  that  looked  their  name  were  great 

and  prime, 

Inverted  cups,  a  span  from  rim  to  rim, 
Pure  white,  but  crusted  with  a  filigree, 


142  Our  Dancing  Days 

"That  was  the  veil"  she  said,  "that  covered 
them," 

Like  silver  carving.    Fine  indeed  as  that 

White-slippered  touch  that  freed  them  and  up 
turned. 

"And  look  what  perfect  rings."  White  garters, 

yes, 

White  on  the  white  full  legs  in  the  white  skirts. 
Turn  up  the  cup,  there  was  a  girl  within  it. 
Bloodless.    Oh,  too  wild  a  fancy,  too 
Fantastic.    I  was  cold.    I  took  my  time, 
Fain  of  the  flame  upon  my  lighting  pipe, 
And,  lord,  how  fain  of  Betty  that  kicked  free 
Those  nipples  of  white  death ;  we  made  of  it 
A  game  together;  and  not  till  we  were  back 
And  Betty  gathering  my  cap  full  of  them, 
The  mushrooms  that  were  life  not  death,  and 

though 
I  knew  the  whole  thing  now,  did  I  make  sure. 

"Nina  Farrell?    What's  she  been  doing  now?" 

And  Betty  sat  upon  her  feet  and  stared. 
"Haven't  you  heard  it,  Jimmy?     Oh,  you've 

been 
Away  from  mails.    They  died  at  Mackinac. 


Two  Notes  and  The  Rechase  143 

She  and  Dick  Farquhar.    Poisoned  with  those 

things. 
The  day  after  you  ran  away  from  me. ' ' 

"It's  two  notes  and  the  rechase,  Betty,"  I  said 
"Remember  that,  the  whistle  we  all  used?" 
And  sitting  close  beside  I  told  her  all 
The  tales  she  knew  indeed,  but  now  one  tale, 
Of  Nina  Farrell,  the  gentian,  the  jacklight, 
And  now  the  death  cups,  and  the  two  great 

plumes 

And  pillars  of  the  sunlit  smoke  across 
Looked  like  them.    "And  I  climbed  aboard  the 

launch, 
And  Nina,  jumping  up  to  greet  me,  knocked — " 

Betty  gasped  "Oh,  lord!"  across  the  word. 

"Yes,  knocked  the  dish  into  the  lake,"  I  said. 
"And  then  she  screamed,  and  I  was  beating  off 
The  lamp-flame  from  her  skirts.    The  last  of  all 
To  clasp  her  knees.    A  scream  of  laughter,  yes. 
That  was  the  death  cup,  Betty.  The  death  cup." 

Betty  sat  still  and  very  still.    Her  hand 
Had  crept  to  mine  between  us  in  the  grass. 


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